Adjoining Bedrooms
by Ripper101
Summary: There is confusion. There are rumours. Tommy Stone is being suspected and even Shannon's formidable talents can't keep the secrets hidden. So Tommy decides to plug up the leak. He forgets that glitter is seductive. ArthurBrian.
1. 1

Author's Note: Will be a series. Will be slash. Will be Arthur/Brian.

-------------------------------------------

"Brian Slade, please."

The woman looked balefully out at him through the crack in the barely ajar door, eyes moving slowly over him. "There is no one here by that name."

His palm slammed flat on the closing door, forcing it back with brute force. "Yes, there is. I'm Arther Stewart; from the 'Erald." Damn! He made a mental note to stop slipping on his 'aitches' so much. He'd been doing it far too many times for comfort recently. Hell, he'd stopped doing that in London, about ten years ago! Why he should have started again he had no idea. Unless it was...

Blue eyes paused to peruse him again. Arthur stared back, deliberately adopting his blankest expression. The door opened, a brief nod from a blond head was all the invitation he got. Arthur walked in and the door clicked shut behind him.

"Wait here."

Short command; no courtesy. Shannon obviously wanted no part of him. But Arthur was willing to bet that the man in the other room felt it even more acutely. Irrational anger at the man hiding behind his luxury and bad make-up and Arthur looked distastefully around the room. There were no young, svelte bodies lounging around here. There was no evidence of drugs or alcohol. There was not even a hint of perfume in the air. But the room was as opulent as Brian Slade might have wanted, filled with delicate furniture and china ornaments, porcelain bowls filled with freshly cut flowers in their multitudes. It looked like half of a florist's store had ended up in the room.

Shannon knocked on the connecting door to the other room. A muffled rumble of a man's voice and then she turned to grudgingly beckon him further.

The door opened. Arthur stepped in. The curtains were closed, the lights were artfully dimmed and then there was the now-familiar figure in his white linen suit and thickened blond hair.

"Arthur?" Tommy Stone seemed, to all intents and purposes, surprisingly happy to see him, shaking his hand enthusiastically and waving him to a seat. "What can we do for you?"

Arthur blinked and sat down hard. Shannon glowered and rolled her eyes in irritation. Stone seemed to notice that look because he smiled ruefully and sat down in the chair opposite his guest's.

"Um, Mr. Stone, you called this meeting, not me," Arthur said cautiously, "Or, uh, your manager did."

Stone looked at Shannon for confirmation. "Ah heck! I forgot! You look like a nice kid; you won't hold it against me."

"Mr. Stone, what do you want?" Arthur interrupted.

Shannon put a restraining hand on Stone's shoulder and spoke for him. "It's more about what you want, Mr. Stewart. Those accusations are untrue and slanderous. Now Mr. Stone will be generous enough to not press charges and we're willing to cooperate with you in making these rumours disappear as fast as possible."

Arthur nodded, lips thinning in a mirthless smile as he considered that. "Cooperate, huh? What am I being asked to do?"

Tommy Stone opened his mouth but again it was Shannon who answered- "Tell us how we can make this worth your while, Mr. Stewart. I'm sure we can resolve this satisfactorily."

Price? Arthur tried to think of what his price was. A cool couple of thousands? Hell, Stone could afford to pay him at least half a million! And then Arthur could move into a less crummy apartment- hopefully with heating that worked during winter- and buy some new clothes and maybe a computer if he felt like it, or a new stereo system. Yeah! A stereo! And then he'd buy all Stone's albums and torture himself by listening to them over and over!

"An interview," Arthur said simply, "One hour with no interruptions and no stalling. I get to ask whatever I like and if I'm satisfied, I won't print what I know. I'll even speak to a few mates in other places to get them to back off. Deal?"

"I'm not sure Mr. Stone is quite..."

"And Mr. Stone answers for himself," Arthur added brutally. He was stumped to see Tommy Stone's lips twitch into the beginnings of a smile.

"I think I can handle that," was all the singer said, however, sounding suitable wary but giving the game away with his eyes, "Shannon, my dear, go make some calls for me, eh?"

"Tommy, that doesn't..."

For the second time in too soon she was cut short. "I insist, Shannon."

The blond woman let out a sigh and a muttered expletive but exited the room as commanded. Tommy didn't move a muscle, or even look in her direction. Arthur was only aware of a cool grey gaze probing past his face and darkly nondescript clothes as if looking for something hidden under them.

"And now, Arthur, what would you like to ask me?"

The question was affable enough, but it had the reporter flustered. He hadn't thought this far ahead! Damn! He really did need to stick to investigative reporting and not celebrity interviews; he was shite at the latter.

"Uh, I'm not quite sure..."

Something flickered in those shuttered grey eyes, something hard and desperate and passionate, like a golden canary struggling free of its golden cage. "I'm sure you can think of something." The accent had changed fluidly, more a rusty British than an over-exuberant American drawl. Even the tone was quivery and light, breaking away from the rich deepness all together.

Arthur knew the signs and read the cues and took the hint, plunging in manfully with both feet. "Are you Brian Slade?"

Those lips tilted up at one corner in a way that tugged at a distant memory in both their minds. "Yes."

There was silence in the room as both gazed watchfully at each other. An ornate clock on an ornate table ticked the seconds away, droning on mindlessly as if it were a representative of the world outside, oblivious to the momentous event taking place in the privacy of a posh New York hotel.

It was finally that thought that snapped Arthur's attention. Because surely it was momentous only to him? The rest of the world didn't care a fucking hang; glam was dead either way. And Brian Slade... well, Tommy Stone had been Brian Slade (or vice versa) for long enough that it couldn't possibly be a surprise to him.

"I think that's all, then," he muttered, getting to his feet and suddenly feeling clumsy, "I don't have any more questions."

Stone got to his feet, pushing his chair over in his haste, one hand raised as if to stop Arthur physically. "Wait! You- you said an hour!"

"I'm satisfied, Mr. Stone; I won't tell anyone and I'll keep my part of our... deal." The word was ash in Arthur's mouth but he kept his eyes fixed on that door and God dammit, but he was going to get through it without looking back at that shipwreck of his former idol.

He looked back.

Stone wasn't doing anything. He just stood there, hands in his pockets and face absolutely controlled. The lapels on his white suit were wide and perfectly placed. Not a hair was awry on his carefully coiffed head. But his eyes! Oh God, in his eyes Arthur saw a younger man laughing with manic delight at the destruction of the world as they had both known it.

He came back. And punched Stone in the stomach.

"How dared you? To do this! To become... this! How could you?" Perhaps he needed therapy after all. Malcolm had told him privately to get some help before he'd abandoned the Flaming Creatures for a couple of disinterested American boys in a cheap New York bedsit.

Stone didn't bother defending himself, almost seeming to sigh with relief when the expected temper tantrum came. "I had to," he groaned.

"You had to? Had to what? Make yourself some plastic-souled, platinum haired wanker who wouldn't know a good song if it bit him in the arse? What the hell were you thinking?" Arthur added another blow to the singer's chin without thinking.

The hunched figure staggered back to fall over one of the many little tables that littered the room. Both table and man fell over, a crystal ashtray somehow managing to chip itself on the thick carpet and in turn slashing open Stone's palm.

"Bugger!" Arthur kicked heavily at the carved wooden chair Stone had first over-turned and raked his hand through his hair several times before reaching out to help the grimacing Stone to his feet.

Stone was sitting on the carpet with his fingers curled tight around the wrist of his injured hand. He looked at the hand offered to him and then back up to its owner's face. "Are you going to hit me again? Because then I'll just stay here, shall I?"

Arthur growled but shook his head. "It was all your fault," he huffed awkwardly.

"Mine? You fucking hit me first."

"That's because- because you were stupid enough to do something so... stupid!"

"It got me a career, Mr. Stewart. One that I'm sure your memory will remind you was in the shite for years."

"Well, maybe if you'd gotten your drugged arse out again?"

"As whom? Brian Slade is a liar. Maxwell Demon is dead. Tommy Stone is the only one left and you're standing there and acting like I bleeding betrayed you."

Stone slapped away the proffered hand and got to his feet on his own, unconscious that his blood was staining both his suit and the carpet. He glared at his assailant for a long moment before disappearing through another door. The sound of running water said it was a bathroom.

Fifteen minutes ticked by and Arthur could feel his seething emotions quieten down. Flashes of familiar faces kept haunting him. This man- everything in his life had revolved this man! Arthur had been thrown out of his home because of this man. He'd lost his innocence because of this man. He'd opened his mind and heart and soul to Brian Slade just like so many other poor sods and what did he have to show for it? Was it fair that Curt Wild drank in dives and lived in trailer parks while Brian sodding Slade lived in mansions and dressed like a fashion disaster in designer clothes? Was it fair that the Flaming Creatures took any gig they could no matter how bad while Slade played to sold-out stadiums? Or that Jack Fairy almost overdosed out of depression and debt? Or simply that everyone he'd ever known was made somehow poorer because of the man washing a shallow cut under gilt faucets? No, Arthur wasn't mad any more, but he was well and truly pissed.

Pissed enough that he stormed into the bathroom after Stone and wrenched a towel off its rack. "Clean that muck off your face."

"What?"

"Go on!"

"No, I bloody well won't."

"You're forgetting our bargain, Stone," Arthur murmured, his voice dangerously low, "I have one hour and you won't satisfy me until you've washed that junk off your face."

Two pairs of eyes challenged each other and then Tommy Stone shrugged, turning away and distancing himself from the whole sordid mess. He'd wanted Arthur to come to him, had had a morbid fascination to know what the kid would say if he admitted to it. But now he wanted to run. To hide those knowing, bitter eyes with an unseeing glaze of adoration. Shannon had told him this would happen. So the bitch had been right; she always was.

The water and his hands changed to murky shades of brown. Having gotten the basic surface off, he lathered soap over the wet edge of a towel and attacked the rest of it. God, but his skin felt raw! He'd been doing this for two months now.

The towel came away streaked with red and brown. Like blood almost. Stone distanced himself even more. He'd seen his own blood once in a panic and the recollection of that event was a terrifying one.

Arthur watched silently, watched the carefully constructed mask gurgle harmlessly down the drain like rusty water. And bit by aching bit the memories were rising closer to the surface with the emergence of Brian Slade.

Brian Slade turned coolly away from the mirror, reaching for another towel to pat his skin dry. In actuality, he found cream got rid of the make-up easier, but he couldn't be arsed to get it from his bedroom.

Cool grey eyes watched Arthur's mouth soften and his eyes grow sad. Anger and awe were obviously warring for dominance and Brian Slade could sympathize somewhat. "Enough? Or should I crack out the eyeshadow and lipstick too?"

"It's enough." Arthur couldn't believe it. Everything in his life came under a 'before' or 'after'. You don't look so different."

"I look older, Stewart; even Brian Slade doesn't stay young forever. I'm not bloody Peter Pan."

"You're still beautiful, though," slipped out before the reporter could bite his tongue. He regretted it the instant he said it, but noted the grateful look in Brian Slade's eyes with something approaching a warm glow.

"No, I'm not." Brian Slade promised himself he wasn't going to spill his guts to the first person he'd spoken to in ages. He simply wasn't going to. He wasn't! "You can't be beautiful when you get old." He had just spilled his guts.

Arthur stepped back distrustfully, eyes instantly searching for signs of mockery. That Slade was the past master at acting the victim he knew. Heck, everyone had said so! And so this was how he did it. Damn, the bastard was good! "I guess. I'm going to leave now."

Brian was confused. He'd expected comfort or scorn, not complete unconcern. "Wait. I... hold on a minute."

"You know what, I don't care any more." Once more furious and once more shouting. Only this time, he was actually shouting at Brian Slade. "I don't care. And neither does the rest of the fucking world. Maybe that's why Tommy Stone is such a great guy- because he's big and loud and he fills the world with absolutely sod-all. And the world likes that because then it doesn't have to care!"

Shannon came running in, fully expecting to see Tommy Stone on the floor with a knife between his ribs. What she got, was Brian Slade dressed in blood stained clothes with a stricken look in his eyes confronted by an extremely upset fan who had just given him the worst news anyone ever had.

"Get out of my way," Arthur snapped, striding past and wrenching open the door.

The door slammed shut. The outer door slammed shut. Brian Slade crumpled to his knees.


	2. 2

"No!"

"Mr. Stewart..."

"Get out."

"Mr. Stewart!"

Arthur bounded out of his seat and made for the door. Bad enough that he was drinking alone on a Saturday night, now Slade had to send lackeys after him? Why couldn't he be left alone? And the man was following him, the loud voice strangely pleading as it pursued him so strenuously that everyone turned to watch the scene. Arthur distinctly heard the word 'fag' muttered by a fat man near the bar. It made him furious. It made him vicious.

It made him turn around to spit, "Listen! I don't want to know, all right? Just go back and tell Stone that I'll keep his little secret."

"But..."

"Fuck off! For fuck's sake!"

The night air was supposed to be crisp and clear. After all, it was New York. It was supposed to be filled with cold wreathes of chilled breath and snowflakes. But it really wasn't. London had been sludge and dirt; New York was no better. Arthur might have felt it more keenly if he hadn't stopped dead to stare at the sight of a limousine parked outside the suspect bar he'd just exited.

"Mr. Stone would like to speak to you."

He pulled himself together enough to snap back to reality. "What accent is that," he griped, "Harvard?"

The man said nothing. He retained a blank look on his blank face and motioned to the limo. Arthur sighed and took two steps towards it. Then he stopped.

The window rolled down.

"Arthur. I was told I could find you here."

"What do you want?" Arthur took a step back.

"To talk, really. Just to talk." Stone seemed uneasy.

Arthur took two steps forward. "Talk? What about , Mr. Stone?"

"About things, Arthur. About this little business of ours."

Arthur took a step back.

"Will you stop dancing in the street and just get in?" Stone growled, pushing open the door and gesturing rudely.

A woman stopped to stare with avid interest at the limousine and at its mysterious occupant. Considering Stone was still dressed as Stone, her eyes went wide and she let out a gasp of shock. The singer, however, remained oblivious to her presence.

Arthur didn't, and Arthur knew just what people would say about famous singers picking up half-drunk men in bad neighbourhoods. It was never pleasant drivel, he imagined. And any suspicion of drugs or gay sex would not help the rumours. So he forced himself to smile, walk forward and get in.

Stone seemed surprised and rather gratified. "Thanks," he said.

"Yeah well, didn't want your public to get the wrong idea," the reporter muttered. At Stone's enquiring look he pointed out the window to the woman walking down the street, still shooting dubious looks back towards the enormous limo. "Why are you here?"

"Because I don't have your reassurance, Arthur."

"Fine. I won't tell."

Stone's grin seemed to come easy enough as he quirked an eyebrow. "Not even your mother?" he joked.

Arthur smirked back coldly. "It would be something to tell my old mum after not speaking to her for ten years, right? She'd laugh. Then my dad'd throw me out again."

"Oh. Shit, I'm sorry."

Those words cracked it. "Look, Stone, I won't tell anyone what I know. You've got my word on that. You want me to sign papers, get your lawyers to send them to me. But it's late; I'm going now."

He got out, hands taking note of the soft leather of the seat he was sliding over, eyes half blinded by the garish glow of the neon sign after the sweet dimness of the limo. And that beautiful pair of grey eyes! Who would ever forget those eyes? All lost, though; hidden in a face only characterized by its angular indistinction. Stone could have been anyone out in the street. He could have been anyone in that bar Arthur had just walked out of.

And ultimately, Stone could have been one of the men that Arthur stared half-heartedly at in the gay club he eventually found himself in.

Except that Stone had no place in any of that. Brian Slade would have found a place here. Arthur liked to imagine that Brian Slade would have enjoyed a gay club. He could just picture the shock of bright blue hair seen at different points on the dance floor, the cat-like grace swaying in a jerky pantomime of ecstasy or joy, pouting lips sending his audience wild with delight.

Arthur shut his eyes and dreamed happily for a while.

And it was beautiful.

Brain Slade in that feather and fur concoction from the poster in that racy mag, June 1972 issue. Brian Slade stalking his prey like the sexual predator he was, grey eyes glowing with fervent bloodlust. Brian Slade fluttering his eyelashes as some man encroached on his personal space without so much as a 'by-your-leave'.

It was nothing new.

These were all recycled images. Images picked up while letting his thoughts run wild when listening to old Grant reading Wilde, or from talking to the outrageous Flaming Creatures during a frequent booze binge. Even a few from the times he'd gone to the club last, and sat there in passive disgust at the crude, tired spectacle around him.

But now was something new. Now he was in the fantasies and of course, Brian Slade never even knew he existed. But Arthur could stand in his corner and stare with rapt admiration...

"Hey buddy, you gonna move, or are you dead?"

He opened his eyes with a start and saw two boys standing in front of him, one clearly drunk, the other just amused. One was dark, the other was blond. Two pairs of blue eyes mocked him blindly. He shrugged and moved, slipping quietly away into the night, ignoring someone who tried to beg a few coins of him.

"Sorry," he muttered, shaking his head, "Don't have anything."

The man- no child, because no man should have that vulnerably helpless look on his face- gave up with a despairing sigh and chased after someone else. Arthur stopped, didn't turn around and groaned. It seemed to tremble up right from his toes to the crown of his head. It was, he thought whimsically, like a sound of cleansing. A deft hand pulled the last of his change from his pocket and he dropped it loudly on the ground.

If the guy asking found it, then that was fine. If he didn't, someone else would. And what did he care anyway? He was only a sodding journalist; he didn't have to save the world! It was just money anyway.

The walk home was rather bland that evening.

And he thought only of Brian Slade.


	3. 3

Author's Note: I know I seem to be taking forever with this, but since there aren't that many reviewers, I thought I could chance it.

-------------------------------------------------

"You're joking."

Arthur looked in disbelief at the man facing him. But Tommy Stone only smiled jovially and shook his head.

"You got to see," the rock star said, using his hands to make his point, "It's not everyday I find someone who doesn't think the sun shines out my ass. I want you to come with me- as a personal guest, of course- and tell me what you think of the show."

"I've seen the show," Arthur argued, folding his arms and refusing to believe that Tommy Stone was standing in his crummy apartment and offering to take him along on the English tour in two weeks, which- if he wasn't mistaken- was considered so hot that the tickets had been sold out in three hours flat.

It wasn't happening.

He'd sat in that armchair to write the novel that had never gotten published. His old Glam Rock records were stacked carefully into the little cabinet right behind him and Tommy Stone was sitting there in his impeccable white suit with his platinum blond hair and his fake tan, _smiling_ at him! This was not the way he had always imagined meeting Brian Slade.

"Then see it again," Stone offered, ignoring the 'get out' look on his host's face. "Be a personal favour to me, you know. Couldn't thank you enough. And you can take pictures, if you want. You'll get to see the whole shindig happen; see the backstage mess and meet the geniuses behind the spectacle. And you can interview me, too. Your paper would jump at the chance for this."

"Yeah, yeah," Arthur snapped, "I know. The legendary Tommy Stone doesn't do candid interviews. So what? The 'Erald doesn't need a lot of talk about writing lyrics and the best way to record the masterpiece known as 'Love You Always'." The song was spat out like it was poison on his tongue.

A brief flash of annoyance reminded him that whether or not this was Tommy Stone or Brian Slade, the man before him did not like his art being dismissed so peremptorily. And Stone believed in what he was doing; there was no doubt about that. Never mind about the fame and the money, Stone did also trust in his music. And Arthur was briefly made to wonder why that was unacceptable to people like himself? And then the anger flared up again and chased that discomfort away.

Slade had had no right to put his fans through such an emotional rollercoaster. People had mourned him, for God's sake! Kids had been traumatised to think they'd been screaming his name in joy just a second before he was shot. The chaos had been horrendous. He'd had no right to do that.

Stone stood up, eyes as cold as the smile was friendly. "So you won't do it, eh? Okay, then. You change your mind, you call this number." The long, slender fingers with the manicured nails never went out to him. They flicked a white card down to the table and then Stone nodded to him and made his own way to the door.

The reporter took a step forward, guilt flushing through him. He'd been brought up right, he liked to think, and this level of rudeness was not normal to him. "Thanks for the offer," he settled on awkwardly, hands shoved in his pockets against the cold, "I can't accept it."

Stone stopped and looked around inquisitively. "Why not? Got something better to do?"

The cocky remark grated on Arthur's nerves but he kept a tight hand on his temper. He didn't lose it very easily; he was more of the type to sink soundlessly in a black reflection if things went wrong and he knew that. But somehow this man set him off in the grandest way. "As a matter of fact I have. And even if I didn't, I wouldn't accept."

"Why not?"

"Got me principles," Arthur muttered, reddening under Stone's amused glance, "I won't be bribed."

"Bribery? Now, hold a minute!" Stone exclaimed, humour very evidently in his voice. He turned fully and held his arms out on either side of his body. "Do I look like the kind of stand-up guy to bribe anybody? You got me all wrong, buddy- just thought I'd show a little appreciation for what you've done for me. That's all."

"Look, you can quit laughing at me and get out! This is my house and not yours so I'll thank you to leave. And take your _bribes_ with you."

Stone left.

The door shut very firmly behind him, propelled by a firm hand.

Arthur stood and glared at the shut door, quivering with embarrassment and insult and anger.

For a few minutes he stood there and quivered. And then he thought better of it and sat down and quivered. Only the quivers went away, just as they always did, sinking him down into that never-ending pit of black sand that wouldn't let him breath in peace without rasping over his thoughts like a lash.

Minutes floated away on silent cat paws, of no importance until he looked at his clock and realized it was past midnight. He'd been down in those pits for three hours straight. And that, he knew, was not healthy. So he pulled himself together, got determinedly off the couch and made his way to his room. Stripping off, catching a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror that was his one concession to taking care of his appearance. After all, he'd reasoned, he might as well see just how frightful he looked before he stepped out of his front door.

For that night the mirror showed him a body that was far too pale, too lean- broad shouldered, but lean. Stockier, though, than he'd been at sixteen, and thank god, there were no more traces of make-up on him. No more glitter in unlikely places, courtesy of Ray or any of the others who'd made up the mad heady world of his seventies' days.

But it was too cold to stare at himself. There was no point in any case. Arthur turned his back with a steely glare at himself and grabbed up his t-shirt and tracksuit pants. Slipping them on, liking that he swam in them just a little, and then bounding into bed.

Only to have the doorbell ring.

"Fucking hell," he muttered. He could get up, or he could let whoever it was ring themselves hoarse and go away.

The doorbell rang again.

"Please, just go. Please?"

The doorbell rang twice more in quick succession. Whoever it was, was getting impatient.

Arthur gave up. He bounded out of bed, the light of killing rage in his eyes. He wanted to sleep. It was either sleep or be sunk in gloomy depression and Goddamn it, he refused to get depressed over a prick like Brian Slade. And if it was the recalcitrant rock star outside his apartment again, he would personally…

"Oh."

"Arthur, m'boy! Didn't wake you, did I?"

"Al? What are you doing here?"

"Just got back from a meeting, my boy, a business meeting." The older man seemed a little the worse for drink and Arthur dragged him in alarm. Al wasn't supposed to be drinking, not after that incident in the office with his wife. "Oh, don't fuss, man! Just- just get me some coffee."

"Lorna isn't going to like this," Arthur cautioned.

Al, surprisingly, laughed and shook his head. "She won't care when she hears. Good job, Arthur! Never knew you had in you! Ah, I see you've agreed, then."

Arthur looked up as a matter of course, standing in the kitchenette with a mug in one hand and a spoon of coffee. When he saw what it was his boss was holding, the mug smashed to the floor and the spoon clattered back to the countertop.

"Arthur! You okay?"

"F- fine," Arthur stammered, "What did you say before?"

Al was beginning to wonder who was tipsy, him or Arthur. "The deal with Tommy Stone. The paper can use a good inside piece on him. Ha! That manager of his is a regal little cookie, hard as they come and pretty with it. I like her."

Shannon? What was Al doing having drinks with Shannon? Arthur didn't like Shannon. And Tommy Stone had shown up on his doorstep with a deal, certainly. When did Al hear about it? And then it hit him like a ton of bricks. Stone had always known he would refuse. He'd given him the chance to say 'yes', but he'd known better. So he'd been the sneaky, lying, underhanded little bastard that he was and he'd set Arthur up!

"Sir, I don't think it's a good deal. I have my assignments here and Stone wants me to go on this tour with him an' I just don't 'ave the time." There! That bloody accent again!

"Nonsence," Al said bracingly, slapping his knee, "The others can cover that. This is more important. Be a bit like that piece you did on Brian Slade, only with a star that is a star, if you know what I mean. By the way, you never did tell me what you found."

Arthur was still standing in his room, thoughts roiling in his stomach and a shattered china mug in his kitchenette and his boss was sitting there, gazing at him expectantly. "Oh, it weren't important."

He'd have to go through with it.


	4. 4

Author's Note: This might seem pointless and a little short, but trust me. It's necessary. I can't believe people are actually reviewing thing! That's so cool!

"Mr. Stone, get your arse out of bed right this minute!"

The rock star grunted and didn't so much as move under the vicious onslaught of sunlight and verbal abuse. Shannon was left to glare uselessly at his bare back from her place by the curtains.

"Tommy," she snapped again, "Get up. You have an interview in two hours."

"Then why the fuck am I getting up so early," Tommy murmured, his voice as clear as if he had actually been awake.

That deceptive voice; Shannon knew it well. It could make anyone feel as if they were the extent of the entire world and then it could make one think its owner was not what he was. She'd heard that voice carry on a normal conversation just seconds before passing out, falling flat on his face without missing a beat. Oh, that voice could do things. Which was why, Shannon decided vindictively, she should probably threaten to rip her client's vocal chords out if he didn't let her keep him at the top of his game.

"Brian," she said awfully, "If you do not leave that bed, I will be forced to do something drastic."

She wasn't the only one who knew how to read voices. Brian Slade, mostly asleep and hung-over though he was, could read the deadly intent loud and clear. And he knew better than to distrust Shannon in that mood. He poked his head up and managed to flutter his eyelashes.

"I'm up," he muttered, "I'm up."

The woman snorted and made her way to the bathroom, throwing open the door before snagging the bathrobe that lay on the floor and tossing it at Brian's head. She disappeared out the door to give him time to get up and get dressed.

Superstar Tommy Stone sat up and shrugged into the fluffy robe, stumbling halfway to his feet before sinking back down with an erudite groan. His make-up was absent, for which he could only be thankful. But even the feeling of air on his skin was not enough to distract him from the pounding in his head. It did no good that he was craving again.

"Shannon," he shouted hoarsely, wiping at his tingling nose, "Shannon!"

"What?"

"Get Lesley on the phone."

The blond looked in with a concerned frown, the glare softening as she saw just how terrible he looked. "Are you alright?"

"Yeah. Now get me Lesley… _please_!"

"Good God, never tell me it's back," Shannon exclaimed, trotting in anxiously and wringing her red-tipped fingers, "How bad is it?"

"Shannon, get Lesley on the phone." A part of his brain was laughing at the rest of him, telling him that he was overreacting as usual. Always overreacting. Always thinking a crack in the ceiling meant that the sky would fall in on him. Brian shivered and huddled into himself, miserable because he wanted a hit and because it was only the vaguest of needs. Just his nerves spending a nostalgic moment remembering the dragging need that preceded the coke.

"Brian, stop this." Shannon grabbed his hands and chafed the wrists. She could read in his eyes that he was only scared. A little boy, really, that needed a mother. Or something. "Look up. Do you want some cocaine?"

Blue eyes widened in spite of his throbbing temples. "No!"

"Then relax," she soothed, "You don't need Lesley. Just take a deep breath and take a shower. I'll get you some coffee."

"But what if it gets worse?" he mumbled, whispering so he could deny the words later if need be.

"It won't," Shannon said bracingly, "By the time you get into that shower you won't even remember needing it."

He nodded solemnly and let her pull him to his feet. "What day is it? Do I have a show tonight?"

"No, you don't," his manager sighed, "You have a few interviews and a photo shoot. And you asked me to bring that reporter of yours to the hotel."

Stone visibly brightened up, turning his head to grin disarmingly at her. "Oh good," he said exuberantly, "We'll have company!"

Shannon only grunted. A most unlady-like sound, but there it was. She wasn't all long blond hair and high heels.

"What?"

"In there," she said shortly, shoving the lanky body through the bathroom door. "Wash up. And get dressed. I'll get coffee sent up here."

Stone poked his head back out, frowning a little at the implications in her voice. He owed a lot to Shannon- he'd be the first to admit it- and she did work her arse off to make sure he kept his feet on the ground; but he'd be damned if he let her control his life with emotional blackmail! "Stop right there," he growled, "What's crawled up your arse, luv? What've I done now?"

"Don't use those crude words on me, Tommy."

"The name is Brian, as I'm sure you remember." He knew when to push her buttons and when not to. At this point, he needed to get her to break her defences. "Come along, ducks, tell me all about it."

She halted and bit her lip, half-annoyed and half-guilty. "I think you're playing with fire," she said slowly, "It's none of my business. But the man knows who you really are. That could mean trouble." She noticed his watchful look. "Brian," she added.

Ah. He should have guessed it. "You want me to get rid of him, don't you?"

"He seems very… dangerous. With knowledge like that." Shannon bit her lip, but straightened her shoulders and looked determined. "I don't like it."

"I'm not doing it for you," Stone pointed out gently, "I happen to like the man. He intrigues me."

"Because he was a fan, Brian. I know it seems interesting now, but if you push him too far he is going to break and then I'll have to clean up the mess. Again. I always do that and frankly I'm tired. It will turn out like that fiasco with Curt Wild from four years ago, when…"

"Shut up, for fuck's sake! I don't want to talk about it! Just get the reporter here and mind your own fucking business. Fucking cow! Always thinks she bloody knows best…"

The vicious words were cut off as the door slammed shut.

Shannon blinked and tipped her head back, forcing the tensed muscles in her body to relax. How had she known it would end with him screaming at her again? He hated that she had forced him to give up his dreams. But she hadn't! He had asked for a clean break and what was she to do. She'd cleaned him up, set him back up with her own bloody savings and he hated that he owed her for that.

Ah well, she'd said what she had to say and that was all there was to it. She knew that glint in his eyes. Brian Slade was too close to the surface, now. If he had wanted to give a press release and confess his true identity, of course, she'd arrange it for him. But it would be tempered with bitterness for having arranged the change of names and all the other red tape that had preceded killing Brian Slade off for Tommy Stone. She would be blamed too, as per usual. She knew that. She was the bulldog, the cold hard bitch that jealously guarded Tommy Stone from the rest of the world. Fans were wary of her; business colleagues hated her. It worked well, mostly, until she decided to be human for a few minutes.

Twenty minutes later the pot of coffee was waiting for the rock star, steaming in the china pot and waiting to be poured. Shannon poured a cup and carried it into the bedroom.

At least this time there had been no need to get rid of whomever she had smuggled up for the night, paying off the cleaning staff not to talk about any stains on the sheets. She'd have to pay for the thorough raiding of the bar, however, but that was alright. People expected Tommy Stone to drink like a fish.

"Brian?" she called, "Brian, your coffee."

She knocked on the bathroom door and he opened it, halfway through his heavy make-up regime. He transferred the brush to the other hand and took a long swallow of the thick brew.

"Thank you, Shannon. Make an appointment with Sue again, eh? My roots are starting to show."

"They certainly are," she said, meaning it in more ways than one.

The man didn't notice. He finished off his first cup and went back in, humming something under his breath that he was itching to write down.

Shannon just watched him for a few minutes. She knew this- the good humour before the storm. And man, were the rain clouds gathering! Any minute now Brian would ask her to get Curt or Mandy on the phone, either that or absently dye his hair blue. And Tommy Stone would look like a cheat and a drunk and a liar. Worse, he would be gay! And to the American public that adored Stone's All-American Man act, that would be the worst sin ever committed.

Her work, in short, was gurgling ominously down the drain and she couldn't find the damned plug.


	5. 5

Author's Note: Mild crudity and insinuated darker themes of uncontrolled violence to furniture and self mutilation. The next chapter is up! How fabulous! I've finally gotten around to writing again!

* * *

"Shannon, when is this going to end?" Tommy whispered.

The blond took a business-like look at her watch. "Another five minutes."

He sighed and reluctantly agreed to do whatever it was the photographer was screaming at him to do. He flapped, scowled, grinned, did every pose short of turning cartwheels, and was finally released. The photographer grumbled and muttered beneath his breath in Croatian.

The rock star was free to get out of the room as fast as he was able, already querulously demanding a change of clothing. Shannon provided the needed clothes and left him alone, entrusting him to the care of chauffer. The chauffer, a big burly African American that detested his job, was more than willing to deposit the rock star at his hotel and take the night off.

So it was, and so it was done.

Brian Slade, a.k.a Tommy Stone, was in his hotel suite in an hour's time, picking up the pot of cream and lathering it irritably over his face. Cotton came away off his skin streaked with rust colours and reds. He made a face and cleaned the rest of it off. It wouldn't do to greet Arthur Stewart with the make-up still on. The younger man was liable to hit him again.

Music?

He mused on that for a second and decided not to tempt fate by playing music. His tastes were varied but anything he played was bound to have some kind of negative effect. So, no music.

Dim the lights?

He blinked at his reflection in a mirror. Why would he ever have thought of such an insane thing? After all, he wasn't _seducing_ the man, was he? They were going to talk, and argue again in all probability. But it wasn't like _that_, was it? He was done with that sort of thing. Had been for years.

Stone refused to remember the young stagehand that had caught his eye not two months ago. Shannon had paid him off and sent him packing, efficiently 'taking care' of everything, as was her wont. But one night stands aside, neither Tommy Stone nor Brian Slade had had any proper male lovers since Curt Wild.

And both personas knew very well how well _that_ had gone!

Peculiar, the fact that Curt Wild had broken both their hearts. Stone was vaguely aware that he had downed his first drink and was even then pouring another out. It was all right. It was just a few, after all. No harm done if he steadied his nerves…

Arthur was sent in not an hour later and gasped in shock.

The room was a shambles. Furniture was lying in various prone attitudes and some of it had been chipped or broken. The room stank of alcohol, and the wet stains of the carpet said why. Curtains had been ripped down and strewn around the rooms. Glass shards littered the glittered from where they had been smashed against the wall. There was, even harder to comprehend, a cracked patch of plaster on the wall that said someone had gone insane with the battered side table.

Frighteningly enough, the windows were open. The sound of cars and crowds filtered up into the vandalized space, sounding disturbingly normal in such chaos.

"Um, Mr. Stone?" Arthur cleared his throat and tried again, walking a few more steps into the room. "Mr. Stone?"

No answer.

Arthur uselessly picked up a shredded cushion. A sliver of the porcelain that had been used to rip it open caught on his thumb and he cursed as he dropped the ruined thing to suck on the tiny wound. "Bloody 'ell," he sighed, looking around.

There was no way that something like this could have been a burglary. Was it even possible for anyone to break into a place like this without anyone noticing? Arthur dropped down bonelessly on the couch and continued to stare around him. By rights he should go down and talk to the hotel staff; call the police and the like. If anything had been taken, it wouldn't help to cool his heels here. And then again this was the jealously guarded private life of Tommy Stone. Maybe he should call Shannon. But he didn't know where she was.

The sound of footsteps sounded on the other side of the door. The ornate clock was still ticking, even thrown halfway across the room to lie next to the bar. The sounds combined and Arthur looked up as the door opened, morbidly expecting the clock to start chiming.

"I was expecting you," Stone murmured. He was leaning against the doorframe, eyes cold and blank still as he held a towel wrapped around his arm.

Bruises, Arthur noticed. It made him wonder. Was this just something he shouldn't bring up? Maybe Stone had had to meet his bookie or his supplier and things got ugly. That wasn't something he wanted to know about. "Shannon said to wait in here," he answered neutrally.

Blue eyes flicked vaguely around and then settled back on his shoulder. "I see. Give- give me a minute and I'll get dressed. Can't go down for a drink dressed like this, eh? People will think I've been in the wars."

Arthur found himself radically changing his decision. "Stone, what happened, here? It looks like you've fought the bloody wars in your living room!"

Stone looked down at the shirt pressed to his forearm and shrugged. "Things happen," he said, turning around to go back into his bedroom, "I'll be quick."

The door didn't close, though, and Stone stumbled to the bed and sat down, still staring at his forearm. Arthur was sitting directly opposite him, albeit in the other room, and couldn't understand what was happening. He watched the slender fingers peel away the shirt from his arm and drop it negligently to the floor. The flash of red and russet mixed with crimson. Not make-up! Blood?

Arthur Stewart was in far too deep for his liking. He was not someone who knew very much about empathy or sympathy. He knew facts and words. But his parents had always told him there were certain things you didn't do, and one of those was intruding on other people's private pain. Poking your nose in to what you don't understand was dangerous, his mum had always said.

But the man was bleeding!

Arthur sighed and stood up. Brian Slade- or Tommy Stone, whichever he was at the moment- didn't move a muscle; he was still transfixed by the cuts on his arm. And from what Arthur could see, they really were beauties.

"Come 'ere," the younger man groaned, "Let's have a look." He walked into the bedroom, closing his eyes to the pristine order and the smell of cologne and hairspray. "What'd you do, you daft bugger?"

A cracked chuckle broke from the slender throat, enough that Arthur questioned his own sanity again for getting involved.

It was clear enough what he had done. The wounds were too clean and precise to have been anything but intentional. Someone- and he suspected it was Brian himself- had taken something sharp and pointy and dragged it over the soft flesh again and again. The reporter clucked like his mother before he thought, blushed in embarrassment and got swiftly to his feet.

"Stay here," he ordered, "I'll get something to clean it."

He hunted through the bathroom cupboards and finally found a First Aid kit. Adding a bag of cottonwool and a mug of water to the mix, he made his careful way back into the silent bedroom. Slade was still in shock, gazing inwards with his eyes fixed on the carpet under his bare feet. Arthur made a mental note to check under his feet for anything he might have stepped on.

The cuts were deep but not fatal, thank God. Most of them had already stopped bleeding. There would likely be scars, but they'd be the thin white ones that no one really noticed. Pretty much like the ones already on the soft underside of that delicate arm.

Arthur stilled his hand and looked down again. "Done this often?" he asked ironically.

Slade shrugged again. He might have looked like a sulky teenager if he hadn't had a black eye and a bruise on his forehead the size and colour of a plum. His grimy white shirt stank of whiskey. There were scratches on his neck, and some of them looked as if they needed to be cleaned out as well. His tan trousers had once been neatly pressed but they were now crumpled, as if he'd spent some time crouched on the floor and crawling.

A soft hiss greeted Arthur's shaking fingers as he tipped some of the antiseptic over the arm.

"Sorry," Arthur said, mentally whacking himself on the head for it.

"S' okay," came the softer reply.

Grey eyes flicked up questioningly and met blue ones. "Want me to bandage 'em? Or should I call a doctor?"

"Just- just wrap the gauze. It should be fine."

It should be? Arthur didn't like shoulds. They were dangerous things. There was always the possibility that what he wanted to happen, wouldn't happen. "I'll wrap 'em up for now and you can go to the doctor tomorrow. I think I should call Shannon, though. Tell 'er about all this."

Brian Slade laughed again, this time weakly and sanely. "Tell her what, Art? That I got piss-drunk and smashed the furniture? That I got a few cuts and bruises? She's patched me up before, Art; I don't need to explain anything to her."

"Don't call me that!" Of all the ridiculous nicknames, Arthur detested that one. His cousins used to call him that; his first girlfriend had called him that. A few of his colleagues over at the Herald called him 'Arty'. It had always sounded to him like a joke at his expense that he could never really grasp. "And stop talking shit."

"I am merely indulging in self-pity," Slade sighed, American accent falling away to a London drawl, "Got no one else to fucking pity me, do I?"

"Yeah. You keep driving them away."

The right hand took a firm hold of his shirt as the gauze wound stingly around the arm. "You believe everything you read, Mr. Stewart? I'd have thought a reporter would know all about the stories the press makes up."

"If you're looking for me to tell you I pity you," Arthur snapped, "I am not going to oblige! You're a drunk and a liar and you've got no call to blame anyone but yourself if you've got hurt."

The fingers moved up to clasp his shoulder as the slender man leaned forward precariously. "Maybe. But you called me beautiful too."

Arthur let go in a hurry and backed away. "You can do the blasted bandage yourself, you know. I'm going home."

Hands caught him again and pulled him hard against a hard body. "Home? To an empty bed and a cold apartment? Stay. I'll keep you very warm." The hard body began to wriggle ever so gently.

The younger man gulped and grabbed Brian by the shoulders and pushed. The rock star went sprawling backwards into the bed, almost falling to the floor but managing to catch himself. To complete the surreal feeling, Brian burst out laughing again, not attempting to untangle his limbs from their inelegant spread.

Arthur was fast coming to realization that his mum had been right. Emotional people were dangerous. And Brian Slade was an asp about to strike. "You're mad," he remarked, "I'm going."

"No, no," Brian giggled, wiping a hysterical tear from the corner of his eye, "Stay and have a drink, Art." He dissolved back into mindless hilarity.

"You're disgusting," Arthur added, knowing very well why narrow hips had pushed up so insinuatingly with the words. "You can take your deal and shove it. I'm done with you!"

And he left, kicking a mess of mangled objects from his way he went away, storming through the hotel lobby with his shaking hands rammed as deep into his pockets as they would go. Arthur wasn't going to let himself get sucked into that dangerous world any more. He had had it with Brian Slade. Never again. Never, ever!


	6. 6

Author's Note: To clear up the unfinished business with Curt and Brian, I thought this would show it off well. Personally, I love Curt/Brian, but it's too convenient. With the different circumstances in their lives, I think they would become too different to really work.

* * *

"Curt?"

The sniffling voice on the other end made the faded star sit up and take notice. "Brian? What's wrong?"

"Everything, Curt. I want… I want to die. Please, God, let me die!"

"I'm not God, Bri," Curt groaned, rubbing his eyes to get the sleep from them, "I can't help you, there."

"Curt, help me."

Was it possible for one man to sound so… small? Curt Wild angled his watch to the thinnest shaft of moonlight shining through the battered curtains and squinted. 3 a.m. He concluded Brian must have had too much to drink- again- and gotten himself into a snit- again- and was now blubbering because he felt scared. "Bri, get off the fucking phone. Go talk to someone who gives a shit."

"No, no! Wait! Curt, please, I… Curt."

The phone was off his ear but the man pulled it grudgingly back. "What?"

"Curt, I need help."

Help. It was easy for Brian Slade to ask for help. He simply looked crestfallen, like a kicked puppy, and used that devastating pout to get all his loyal followers to slit their very wrists to help him out. And if that didn't work, he set Shannon on them with a malicious smile. "You want help? You go to fucking detox and get off the booze. Then you wipe that shit off your face and stop bleaching your hair. After that, live in a hole in the ground for a few hundred years until we've all died and gone so we don't 'help' you fuck up any more than you already do."

"Curt, I said I was sorry!"

He had. So many times. Curt shut his eyes and grit his teeth. "Well, stop, okay? I don't wanna hear it."

"Curt, I know you're mad at me, but if you would _listen_. You don't listen! You never have!"

"I don't want to listen!" Curt yelled, losing his temper as the only way to stop the gnawing burn somewhere in his gut, "I don't want to fucking listen to a single poisonous word that comes out of your poisonous little mouth! Now get off my fucking phone and stay off!"

"Curt, he knows!"

Once again the phone paused in mid-flight back to the cradle. Sleep-reddened blue eyes gazed around the tangled shadows and mess of the trailer, trying to reconcile the voice on the phone with the life around him. "Knows what?"

"That reporter," Arthur's voice continued hurriedly, "He- he knows who I am. He knows me. He knows about Brian Slade and Tommy Stone."

"He been blackmailing you?" Curt raised a mock-reverential hat to the reporter in question. If he'd had the balls, he would have done it. Shannon would have paid handsomely to keep her alcohol-addled only client out of the shithouse.

"No." The silken voice quivered. "He s-says he won't tell. But how can I trust him? I can't trust anyone! Why would someone like him care if I get hurt? No one else does, Curt. No one at all." Another bout of sniffles made their way over the line.

"For God's sake, Bri, get a hold of yourself," Curt growled cruelly. It was the only way to stop that self-pitying streak. The man was neurotic and petrified. The only thing he responded to was someone stronger than him, someone who would cut through his bullshit and drag him out by the scruff of his neck. "No bloody aliens are out to get you, you wanker."

"No, but this reporter is!" The voice was becoming shrill, reminiscent of a cornered rat thinking it had to fight for its life.

Curt knew that voice. It said people would be hurt so Brian Slade could feel he was 'safe' again. Whatever safe was. "Now shut up and listen to me, Brian," he snapped, letting every last ounce of his own dangerous personality out into the words. Not that he needed to try; he owed Brian Slade enough anger as it was. "You will sit your bony ass down and _think_ about what you're doing. Jesus Christ, you sound like a sodding nutcase!"

"I am not mad!"

Long legs thudded to the floor as they swung restlessly out of the narrow bunk. "Yes, you fucking are if you think that this poor sod is out to get you. I met him, Bri, and I did a little checking up on him. He's just some rookie journalist that happened to put two and two together. Word is, he's a decent guy who won't break his word."

"How do you know?"

"I told you, I asked around." Yeah, Curt added silently, to see if I could tell the man that I'd back his story myself. "And that night, the one where he came backstage to the press conference, I met him in a bar. He was a glam boy, Bri, who got messed with when you got yourself shot. He misses his country and he misses his youth. That's all."

Silence.

"Bri, you still there?"

"Yes…"

"Good. Could you get off the fucking phone so I can get back to sleep?"

"Curt, what happened with us?"

The older man groaned and fell back on the bed. "Brian, it is too late at night for this shit."

"Please, just- just tell me."

Curt propped himself up on his elbow and stared up at the rusty ceiling. "We thought we could rule the world and we couldn't," he said, "We got lost in the dreams and got scared. We went too far out to sea and we drowned. Want any more metaphors for what happened?"

"No, Curt, I want the truth."

"The truth?" How strange, Curt frowned. Brian Slade had never asked for the truth before. "You want the truth?"

"I want the truth. No metaphors. Don't sound like you're trying to write a song out of this. I just want to hear _you_."

"You can't handle the truth."

"Curt, the reporter said the only reason the world liked me was because I didn't mean anything to them. Is that true?" Soft voice, not childishly petulant but something even more dangerous- honestly mournful.

"See it from his point of view, Brian. The kid probably worshipped you. Hell, they all did. _We_ all did! We thought you were going to live forever, being as gorgeous and beautiful and… ah, shit. What does it matter? Ten years ago you ruled England and everyone thought you were some kind of messiah. Now you're like everyone else. If you left, they'd get someone else to play Tommy Stone."

"And no one could ever be Brian Slade. Was that it?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

"Curt, are you still doing coke? I can hear rustling on the phone."

Curt Wild froze, his blond hair in his face as he glanced up in fright. His hands stilled on the package they had reached for, the little packets of white that he had bought up with the last of his savings after that last song had been grudgingly taken by EMI. He had another in the works; he wouldn't be penniless for very long. What was the harm in a little pleasure? When he had so little left, why would anyone grudge him just a tiny snort of something good?

"Curt, you're still on that crap. I told you to stop. I _told_ you!"

The fingers stiffened and continued with their tasks. "Stay out of it, Bri. It's not your business any more."

"I told you, Curt. I need you! I'd do anything to get you back, but all I ask is that you get off the coke! Is that too much to fucking ask for, you nancy prick?"

Curt winced and began the delicate process of forming the neat little lines. "You don't need me, Brian. You just want to know you can snap your fingers and have your own human poodle run out and lick your face. Well, I don't roll over and I sure as fucking hell don't play dead."

"I never asked you to play dead." More silence as Curt inhaled all the goodness of the white powder. "Curt, you're killing yourself and your music. Trust me, I know. I've been there."

"You've been there?" Curt wiped his nose and laughed a little. "I've never left. For over twenty years. Since I was sixteen, Bri. There is nothing you can tell me about dope that I don't already know. And you know what? That's the way it is. So don't give me your reformed bullshit because I know you better."

He slammed the phone down and refused to pick it up again when it rang. Soon the insistent ring of the telephone droned into his reeling mind until he thought it was just the sweet sound of a shrill guitar. _His_ shrill guitar. The one he would have to sell if EMI decided they didn't want that second shitty song he had written for Brenda Whatshername. He was already due on the rent and his supplier would come knocking for the rest of what was owed him.

Curt Wild forgot all about that, forgot all about the savage disappointments of his life for the glory of his former days. The most explosive thing to hit England since the Blitz, his band. Where were they now? One was playing in another band somewhere in Michigan. Another was dead of a heroin overdose. Yet another was just out after serving time for sexual assault and battery.

A bloody ill-fated lot they were. The end of the sixties had been a glorious ride for them, full of wonderful clashing cymbals and pretty people. And then… that face- that one beautiful, pale face with the over-full lips and the long-lashed grey eyes. Brian's jaw had fit so perfectly in his palm, his tongue had found a home in Brian's mouth.

And Goddamn it, could the boy give head!

Curt Wild smirked dreamily up at his ceiling, still hazily recalling the memories of that one night, too soon before the end, when they had first begun. Of course, they'd had the looks and the glances and the meaningful words, but when they'd finally ditched the groupies and the fuck-buddies and the wife… ah, that had been heaven.

Long fingers and a worshipful prayer for more; flushed pale skin and those pretty, pretty thighs that had flexed so beautifully when he…

The memory vanished. Curt frowned and sank down into tears, turning over onto his stomach so he wouldn't drown himself.

And then there had been the second time. Cautiously agreeing to meet with Tommy Stone over a business dinner. The first glance of long-lashed grey eyes and the first feel of those slim fingers and he knew. Raging under his breath and the way Brian had just let him. Had taken it all and trembled out an apology. Had begged to be forgiven, spoken of all the nights he'd woken up crying because Curt was not laying next to him… romantic bullshit, the lot of it. But _affecting_ romantic bullshit.

And they'd made up. Oh, how they'd made up! The tiny lines were now a permanent fixture on the once-smooth skin, and the bleached hair was not really Brian Slade's colour, but with the make-up and stiff suits gone, it was just Brian in bed with him. Sipping champagne and making new memories, talking over the people they had known and the things they had done.

Curt sniffled; unable to stop himself crying when his mind was rolling down the slope to a green meadow. The sound of the sea and the memory of those sweet kisses crashed along somewhere in the back of his mind.

The final betrayal when they both realized they weren't at all what the other needed. Curt wanted his Brian Slade, his glittering glam boy with the shivery vocals and the snake-slither shimmy. Brian wanted his Curt Wild, with the howling energy and the squealing guitar and the crudely humorous talk. What they got were two very different people, who were no longer bound even by a dream. Curt wanted fame; Brian wanted comfort. Curt wanted to go back; Brian wanted to go forward. Curt wanted leftovers for breakfast; Brian wanted a cup of coffee and vitamin pills.

They had had to break. Curt tangled his fingers in the stale sheets. They had had to break and he'd been left to pick up the pieces on his own. Never being able to leave his shitty trailer without seeing that fucked-up face on a poster on the street somewhere, smiling blandly down at him with cold grey eyes.


	7. 7

"Sir? Sir, you need to put your seat belt on."

Arthur nodded and silently complied, refusing to allow himself to note that his hands shook or that his mouth was too dry. The sounds of the airplane getting ready to taxi to the runway were, in one word, terrifying. He hated flying! Hated it with all the passion of his soul and he didn't know why it was that he found himself sitting in a window seat with his hands twisted in his lap and his feet clamped to the floor like lead and the feeling of utter panic surging in his chest.

Wait. Yes, he did know why, and he had never hated Tommy Stone quite so much in his entire life. And the plane hadn't even taken off yet!

It was a long journey, too long. Long enough that Arthur was ready to kiss the ground when he stepped off onto it. Never mind that it was English soil and he had promised himself that he would not come back to England in any kind of hurry; it was good, solid earth and that was all that mattered.

A battered suitcase and a few frustratingly lengthy formalities later, and the man found himself in English sunlight. Well, rain. Rain. Good rain that tasted like smoke and fog and other impurities that he didn't want to think about. It had been an age!

"Mr. Stewart?"

He looked quickly around to the chauffer looking at him from under a forbidding black umbrella with a disapproving stare. A chauffer? Why was there a chauffer staring at him? "Yeah?" He frowned a little, not liking this at all.

"Mr. Stone sends his compliments," the man replied.

Good God! First the guy with the Harvard drawl and now the clipped Oxford accent! Arthur surrendered his battered suitcase without argument and let the umbrella be held over his head. The car was not, thank God, a limousine. But it was an expensive thing, with sleek interiors that make him uncomfortable for dripping damply in it.

"Mr. Stone, er, sent you?" he asked, clearing his throat nervously.

"Yes, sir."

"Oh good." He racked his brains to think of something else to say and then thought better of it. This wasn't a New York taxi driver. He wouldn't want to discuss the state of the world in the fifteen minutes they travelled together.

Arthur Stewart had schooled himself not to be surprised by the size and look of the hotel that he eventually found himself at. He didn't glance around uncertainly as he was let out of the car, or offer to carry his own bag, or even blink at the doorman's mocking good morning. After all, it wasn't _his_ fault that he was here!

"This way, Mr. Stewart," the chauffer said.

"Right."

Shannon was waiting for him, clipboard in hand and reddened lips set in an ill-tempered line. "Mr. Stewart. Welcome," she said shortly, offering him a brief smile that didn't reach her icy blue eyes, "Mr. Stone is upstairs. Thank you, Gilly. Is that all?"

"That is all, Miss." He tipped his cap and left.

Arthur noticed that no tip changed hands. Was his salary that substantial? Well, Stone always did do things phenomenally large.

"You certainly travel light, Mr. Stewart," Shannon remarked. She said something to the front desk and then led him away to the bar. "Have a drink with me, Mr. Stewart. There are a few basic rules that we do need to discuss. Mr. Stone would be bored with them so it is best we go over them without him. What will you have?"

"Beer," he said absently, trying to get his mind to work.

"American or British?" Shannon asked patiently.

"Eh?"

"What kind?" she elaborated.

Arthur looked at the barkeeper wildly. "Eh…"

"Get him the usual, Harris," Shannon interrupted, sighing slightly to herself. If there was one thing she did not need, it was an easily flustered reporter to take care of as well as a temperamental celebrity.

Something soothingly amber and nutty was placed in front of him and Arthur decided that the 'usual' was something he wouldn't mind having the next time either. It was good to get away from the tasteless American brands. No one made beer like the English- he was convinced of that.

But Shannon was not here to buy him a drink and she had already begun to tick things off on her manicured nails. "First, Mr. Stewart, I know you have carte blanche to use whatever angle you wish, but the finished article will be approved by myself on behalf of Mr. Stone."

This was something Arthur was familiar with. "Fine," he agreed, "But keep in mind that this is an in-depth article. All new scoop on Tommy Stone an' all that. I was promised free reign."

Shannon's blue eyes narrowed. "We shall see. Second, photographs are allowed only if they do not interfere with Mr. Stone's schedule. He is too busy to pose for anything ridiculous. No indecent photographs or photographs that encroach on his privacy, and that includes with fans and persons that are not directly working as cast or crew. Basically, nothing unless it deals with work. Am I understood?"

"Sure." Arthur could agree to that. He wasn't looking forward to discussing Stone's sex life, if the man had any with that frightful mask of a face any more.

"Three, all comments and quotes are to be referenced for our convenience. Four, no other media personnel are to be involved in this. Notes, interviews, photography and writing are to be done by you and you alone. Five, negatives from the photographs you take are to be returned to us. All of them! Six… no mention or allusions to any of that Slade madness."

Ah. He'd been waiting for that. "None of _that_, eh?"

"None at all. The first inkling I get that you are making any more insinuations and I will slap you with a lawsuit so fast that you will have a hard time blinking."

Arthur leaned forward just as she had, smiling softly at her determined little face. "You can't sue me for the truth," he reminded her.

Shannon sucked in a breath. "I've said all I have to say. This was Tommy's idea and not mine. I wash my hands of you. One last thing- sign this, please." She tossed the clipboard down in front of him and then placed a pen on top of the papers.

Arthur looked from the written agreement to the woman sitting next to him. The barkeeper had moved away and was very meekly not listening to the conversation being held at one corner of his bar. Shannon, for all her aggression, was very soft-spoken and very careful. Had anyone looked in on their little scene, they would have seen two people arguing, without hearing a word about Tommy Stone or Brian Slade.

He pushed the clipboard a little way away and picked up his glass again. "I don't sign anything until I've read it," he told her, "I'll 'ave it back to you by tomorrow. Now, I need to sleep, so where is my room?"

He was not here to give anyone an easy time. If Shannon blamed him for his presence here, then he wasn't the one she should be whipping. This was all Stone's fault and no mistake. And if he had to suffer, then so could she. Why was she smiling at him like a she-devil?

"In Mr. Stone's suit," she said blandly, "You have the bedroom next to his."


	8. 8

It was too opulent. Arthur looked around, decided he couldn't stay there on any account because he'd spend his time being too afraid to touch anything. The first moment he got, he'd demand Shannon get him another room. If she didn't, he'd quit. A good plan all around. He'd be released from his obligations. His job too, probably, but at least Stone would leave him be.

A thought that was currently haunting him for the moment. He had put down that last instant of innuendo as the result of an unhinged moment, as someone desperate for touch. But he couldn't help feeling some sort of suspicion over why he was put into a room that had a door linking his sleeping quarters with Tommy Stone's. Not that he flattered himself, but Tommy was either economizing on space in some crazy way or had some agenda.

Arthur suspected the later. So he only unpacked a change of clothes from his suitable and laid them out. He really did need to bathe and change. If he could just find…

"Welcome, welcome! How was your flight?"

The booming joviality made him cringe, but Arthur turned around and glared with all his might. No need to show any kind of apprehension or confusion, he told himself, look tough. So he looked as tough as he could. He suspected that that wasn't very tough at all, but since Stone didn't come any closer he took it as a good sign.

"Fine," he grunted, then turned back and aimlessly trolled through his things again.

"I suppose you're wondering why I put you with me, eh?"

Arthur didn't deign that with an answer.

Stone couldn't help grinning. The man looked so uncomfortable! It was really quite sweet. "With my hectic schedule, I figured it would be good to be close by. You know, for all those searching questions and things. Give you a chance to really know me."

"Stone, I don't want to know you."

"Tommy, kid, Tommy."

"Kid!" Now that really annoyed Arthur. Enough so that he stopped messing with his things and spun around. "I am not," he protested, "A kid." "And I am not calling you by that name," he added.

"And what do you plan to call me- Brian?" The low, rusty British accent was back. "That should be interesting."

"Not for you it won't. Look, this won't work. I refuse to stay in this room, so either get me another or put me on a plane back to New York."

Brian Slade looked him up and down for three long seconds and then turned away with a shrug. "I'll have Shannon arrange it as soon as she can. Can't promise anything." He turned back to flash a smile. "Have dinner with me. Eight o'clock sharp."

And he was gone. Arthur stared in shock at the shut door. It felt as if all the energy in his body had drained away, out the bottom of his bare feet and soaking into the carpet. Thick, shaggy, soft carpet. His arms felt too heavy. He felt too heavy. And the room was suddenly so dark. He couldn't see very much and the weight of the warm air was pressing down into him, trying to fill that void inside of him. Like a vacuum. Only he wasn't a black hole; he was a person. And it hurt to feel his ribs tightening so hard he thought they might crack with the strain.

An hour later Arthur came gradually back to his senses. He was sitting down on that thick, shaggy carpet, his knees pulled tight to his chest to stop the world from cracking his ribs. He was cold, too. But that was okay. It hadn't lasted that long this time.

So he got off the floor, dragged his stiff body up and picked up the clothes that had fallen out of his hands and the bag with his shaving things and he stumbled away to the bathroom, not even noticing the gilt faucets and the bright cream tiles. It only really registered that the water was lovely and warm as it wrapped around him and he could finally let out a long, tired sigh that spluttered through the drops and misted on the frosted glass.

That was okay. He could take that. All he had to do was get ready. Slow. He could go slow, here. He could shave and change and take a nap. Tommy Stone had agreed to get his room changed as soon as he could and that was okay too. There was nothing to worry about. No sense getting worked up over this. No sense at all. So he would do his job, he would take a few pictures maybe of those behind-the-scenes variety and he would write up a singularly formulaic, glowing report on the artist and his artistic lifestyle.

He got out of the shower, didn't bother to dress and went straight to bed.

Arthur was too tired to wait up for anything now.

Stone waited for five minutes. He was not, as it were, used to waiting. So sitting in the lobby and checking his watch was a humiliation beyond what he could endure. So much so that he was in a foul mood as the minute hand crept towards the ten-minute mark. It was an expensive watch. A Swiss watch. Tommy Stone had shelled out a lot of money for that watch. It kept time like all expensive Swiss watches that cost a lot of money- it was never wrong.

Arthur Stewart, therefore, was late.

He got up fluidly and stalked to the front desk, clearly annoyed by something. The girl behind the desk was answering the phone, but her face brightened when she saw the rock star. The phone was hardly back in its cradle before she was smiling at him invitingly and hoping there was no lipstick on her teeth.

"Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Stone?"

"Send a call up to Arthur Stewart, please."

She nodded, said something pretty, was ignored and finally settled for being given the man's room number. She contented herself with the thought that it was probably a business thing.

"Mr. Stone, there is no answer. Would you like me to try again?" she said at last.

The look on Stone's face was priceless. Had Shannon been there, she wouldn't have known whether to immediately arrange for the damage control she would be forced to do, or to let the last not-so-frigid parts of her hidden humanity laugh out loud in sheer amusement. For the first time in forever, someone had stood up the man with the full mouth and the big grey eyes.

"No," he grit out, "Thank you." It sounded more of a curse than a sign of gratitude and her pleasant smile faltered.

But Stone was already gone, storming to the elevators and grimly waiting to step into it. He looked neither right nor left, and from the looks of things he even snapped viciously at the employee in the spacious cubicle as the doors began to shut.

Tommy Stone was upset, no doubt about that.

He was still more upset when he got to the door connecting the two bedrooms and found it unlocked. He was very upset when he opened the door to darkness. The anger melted somewhat when he saw the man huddled under the covers in the bed, naked and flushed.

The sound of the door smacking open made Arthur blink in sudden shock and sit up as the light was switched on.

"Stone?" he muttered hoarsely, "What the 'ell?"

Stone's unreadable face looked at him for a moment and then defeat seemed to settle along the suited lines of his body. "Never mind. Go back to sleep."

Arthur stared at him in confusion, eyes heavy-lidded and his mind still in that numbed place between sleep and dreams. "What's 'e time?" he yawned.

Grey eyes softened somewhat, even though he never noticed it. "Jetlag," Tommy Stone sighed, "Guess I just don't feel it so much any more. Go back to sleep, Arthur. I'll see you when you wake up."

Arthur attempted to think of a reason to fight that. After all, this was Tommy Stone. And he had sworn not to let himself get pushed around by Tommy Stone. But the bed was so comfortable and the pillows were so soft and the air smelt so good…

Stone roughed yanked the covers back up over the sprawling body- trying to be a gentleman about it and feeling like an utter prat about it- and let them fall haphazardly over the sleeping form. He went away before he did something so silly as kiss Arthur's forehead or something.

Honestly! What was he- a nursemaid? The man's mother? He was not making a habit of putting Arthur Stewart, reporter for the Herald, to bed. Bad enough he was fraternizing with the paparazzi; he wasn't going to start welcoming them into the cosier aspects of his life. And especially not a grubby, sullen _kid_ like Arthur Stewart!

The man needed to learn a few manners. He was being paid- literally begged- to do a huge story on a big star. _Him-_ a reporter with no real reputation beyond a quiet respect and a murky connection to that Brian Slade ordeal from a few months ago.

Stone needed a drink. Without even thinking he had taken out the entire bottle and set it at his elbow, unconsciously ready to pour a second measure out before he had even tasted the first.

No, something would have to be done about Arthur Stewart. Shutting him up would not be easy by pandering to his career. The man was so blatantly disapproving! Why should Brian or Tommy or some combination of the two have any kind of apology for what they had or had not done in the past? The past was over. Maxwell Demon went down with a blank bullet and a lot of white feathers. Brian Slade changed his name and emerged from rehab as Tommy Stone. There was no one _but_ Tommy Stone. And Tommy Stone was as he was.

That second measure was poured out and the third one anticipated.

La Glace.

The name popped into Stone's head just as he turned his mind back to the problem at hand. If his career was not the answer, something more potent should be used. Something Brian Slade had been very good at: big grey eyes and soft smile. Pale skin always looked its best in the smoky dullness of a dark club. Softer clothing? Yes, with a flash of skin and a brief touch of fingers.

Tommy Stone spread his hands and looked down at them. They were as steady as they had ever been. He remembered looking down once when he was high as the sun and seeing them tremble uncontrollably. He had spent ten minutes trying to stop them and they just hadn't stopped trembling. No more of that, of course. The coke was gone. The occasional bit of heroin was gone. He didn't even do hash any more. He barely took aspirin he was so tired of little pills.

But Arthur didn't know any of that. _He_ still looked back to those heady, heavy days of Glam Rock. Chances were, he would expect everyone else to do it too. Stone didn't. But Arthur wasn't to know that.

A slow smile began to curve over the full mouth. Curt would have recognized it as smug, nasty, petty self-satisfaction.

La Glaceit would be. Dinner for two. Appeals to his career wouldn't work? He would appeal to his nostalgia.

"It was so beautiful in the beginning," Tommy Stone rehearsed softly to himself, "It meant so much to me. But things got complicated. Maxwell Demon became a monster. He controlled me and I was so scared. I did something I was not proud of. But now I have a new start. It may not seem much, but it's all I have. You can understand that, can't you? We all need second chances."

Yes. That would do it.


	9. 9

Author's Note: Again, I seem to get stalled every few chapters or so. But I'm back so let's see where the Giant Wheel takes us this time. Apologies for the short chapter; the next will be longer.

----------------------------------------------------------

Arthur yawned hugely behind his hand and leaned more heavily on the rickety table behind him.

Stone was at his most animated, charming the hip young reporter sitting in a gilt chair across from him. The young man had stars in his eyes, sitting there with his hair set just so and his narrow black tie stylishly loosened over his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

The Eighties… dear God, what a dreary decade! No colour, no passion!

Arthur yawned again.

"Tired?"

The voice startled him, made him sit straighter and blink the boredom away. "Wha'? Oh. No, I was just…" he offered a humourless smile, "… just thinking."

Tommy nodded and turned back to the reporter looking curiously between the two of them. "That's all, then," he said firmly, "Good of you to drop by. Anything else?"

The reporter took this as the polite dismissal it was and smiled, standing up as quickly as he dared. He muttered his thanks and his awe and scurried away, shooting one last admiring look back as Arthur rolled his eyes and shook his head.

"Bloody waste, isn't it?" Tommy commented suddenly. Grey eyes were fixed on the door. "All those pretty things, trying to be hip and new. Ghastly."

"Thought it was your scene," Arthur commented non-committally.

"My following, not my scene," Stone said, standing up and walking slowly to the mirror set above the mantelpiece. He dragged a hand through his impeccable hair and tightened the skin around his eyes in disdain. Wrinkles. He hated them, even though they were still tiny and hard to notice. But he knew they were there. He settled his jacket, watching Arthur watch him in the mirror. "Any questions so far?"

Dark eyes blinked.

"Questions, Art. Your article?"

"Oh." Arthur got his brain wrapped firmly around the concept. "No. No questions."

Tommy Stone grinned as he turned around, shaking his head in mocking accusation. "That bad, eh? Come on! It can't be getting you down so soon."

Arthur's usual response was to resent being laughed at, or condescended to, and he usually wanted to leave straight away. Today was no exception. Watching the fraud taking place made him as bitterly unhappy as knowing the truth in the first place. At one time this would have been a dream. Arthur would have pinched himself and held his breath, praying to every God he knew- and quite a few he didn't- that he didn't make a fool of himself in front of Brian Slade. But with Tommy Stone… perhaps hero worship was all it had been, he sighed cynically, not even respect for an artist. Just a good, old-fashioned crush on a gorgeous celebrity.

Stone was still watching him with those disturbingly unnatural grey eyes. Those eyes couldn't be hidden, Arthur realized. The same eyes there that he had once seen in his wildest daydreams. "Something wrong, Art?"

"Stop calling me that, Stone," Arthur snapped reflexively.

"Get off your high horse, Art, and give me a little help here. I'm trying to be nice!"

"I don't need you to be nice to me."

Great! The rock star kept a discreetly grim face but did a brief victory dance in his head. Arthur Stewart, reporter for the Herald and bane of Tommy Stone's existence, had just walked straight into his trap with his eyes shut. Just like a cat that follows a bit of yarn being twitched at it. Insanely predictable, almost. "Look," Stone finally growled, "You don't want to be friendly, that's okay with me. I'll survive. But I made a deal, Mr. Stewart, and I'm not backing away from it. From now on you can make your own way through the rigmarole of my life, but I want to get this bloody article out of the way so I can focus on my music."

He walked closer, deliberately standing a scowling arm's length away from the stiff, black-clad figure gazing at him with narrowed dark eyes. "So we will go out tomorrow evening," he seethed, "And we will have a drink together, and you will ask me anything you goddamned wish. After that, you're on your own. Got me?"

Stone spun on his heel and stalked out, already shouting for Shannon even though she was probably in the next room anyway. He left Arthur there, silent and stiff and just a little taken-aback. The man bit his lip to keep the smile from his face.

Arthur was all too easy.


	10. 10

Author's Note: This is getting a little difficult to write; therefore I'm taking the extra time to write it properly. Not for any other reason but that I'm trying to get the characters to stay true to the movie and still seem plausibly more developed. Let me know if you think I'm off track.

-------------------------------------------------------

"Where are we going?"

Arthur had been asking that question for days. He'd even asked Shannon! But the woman had shrugged and told him she had no idea. "He planned it himself. I have no idea."

As Tommy Stone had put it- "Look, Art, I don't wanna _be_ available, okay? I need an evening off. So we're going to this club I know and we're going to get those questions out of the way. Then you can catch the next flight back to New York if you want."

Stone was counting on the fact that Arthur Stewart would not want, not after that club. La Glace was very special. The last time Stone had been there, it had barely been open a few months. Of course, he had wanted to advertise it, put it in all the papers and have glittering stars visit its dark door every night. But he had seen the error of his ways. It had been remodelled, but only because another kind of star visited it.

Stone was looking forward to this trip. All the arrangements had been made. "Coming, Art?"

The reporter got his head out of the cloud and strode to where the rock star waited for him in the hotel lobby. Against snide comments and gentle suggestions, he had elected to wear black. As usual. In mourning, he thought acerbically to himself, for the rise and fall of celebrity. He was in a bad mood to top it off. He'd called his mother that morning, told her he was in London on a story. He'd tentatively suggested meeting, but she'd stonewalled him so fast, it had made his head spin. Until, that is, she heard he was the personal guest of Tommy Stone, musician extraordinaire and loved by children and adults alike. She wanted to meet Mr. Stone and maybe get his autograph.

"Stop looking so serious, kid. I won't eat you."

Stone's slender hand descended on Arthur's shoulder and for just a second the man looked at it in surprise as he went through the door held open and then cameras flashed in his face. "What the 'ell?" he gasped, shielding his eyes instantly.

"Never been on this side of the lens, eh?" Stone laughed beside him and waved a brisk hand at them before pointing Arthur into the cab that stood waiting. "Get in. Hurry." Arthur wriggled in and then Stone hopped in and the cab driver took off instantly.

Arthur blinked again and saw purple lights behind his eyelids.

"The reason we all wear dark glasses," Stone commented, uncannily reading his mind, "Even at night. Not to look cool. To protect our eyes. Those flashes can blind you at fifty paces when they all go off in a frenzy."

"Who called the press?" Arthur demanded. He knew how these things works. The press didn't turn up in such droves for no reason at all. And he'd never been bothered by them before. Of course, now that he thought about it, he'd never walked out of the hotel with Tommy Stone's hand on his shoulder. At one time that would have meant an awful lot, if it were Brian Slade. People would have talked. Arthur blushed just thinking about it.

"Shannon, I suppose. It was a good photo opp."

There was silence for the longest moment while Tommy Stone took off the hat he had affected and ran a hand through his platinum blond hair. Arthur got a good look at him for the first time that evening. That hair had not been teased and tortured into shape. It fell over in soft, if rather messy, waves. Not as much make-up either. Arthur took it as a sign of doom.

"Got the sound check to do tomorrow," Stone murmured distractedly, "Thank God. This place depresses me."

"Why?" The reporter was avidly interested, even if Arthur wasn't.

Grey eyes shot a quiet look at him before the chin jerked to the rain-drenched outside. "Too bloody dull! Give me L.A. anytime. Sun… Sea… Fresh Air…"

"Assembly line people," Arthur snorted, "Fake tans and fake smiles?"

Stone laughed again and shrugged ruefully. "I guess you have to meet the right people. Nothing wrong with a fake smile, is there? It's more polite, after all, than meeting someone with a frown. Sure they'd stab you in the back with no compunctions, but then I've had all that happen right here. _Everyone_ stabs you in the back… sooner or later."

"Sure," Arthur said sarcastically, "Or they could shoot you."

Stone's head snapped up and he shot an intent look at the driver before frowning at Arthur. Not the right time for this, was what the gesture said. From the way the younger man nodded and looked back out of the window, Stone could tell he was actually lowering his defences. The rock star congratulated himself. Brian Slade had evidently lost none of his charm.

Before long, the taxi came to a stop and Stone tapped his companion's shoulder to signal their arrival. The taxi was paid for and it left instantly, the driver having been sufficiently cowed by that blond dragonlady back at the hotel into not daring to say anything to his passengers at all. But what the hell! The tip had been good!

Arthur had one moment to notice two strip bars before Tommy Stone walked swiftly to the bright red door set in-between and knocked.

"Come on, Art," the rockstar called over his shoulder, "You don't want to stand there all night."

Arthur was just going to shake his head when he noticed two people staring at him as they exited the bar on the right. One of them sat something to the other and then spat in disgust. Whatever it was, Arthur knew hostility when he saw it and he went for the safe haven of the opening red door. Because Tommy Stone wouldn't go anywhere dangerous, would he? The man liked his privacy too much to jeopardize it, right? Right! Of course, right! It had to be!

A short, dark passage lay just beyond and Stone went in with a slick smile at the massive guy holding the first door open. The bald man grinned back at Stone, but the smile dropped away when he saw Arthur. "Who're you?" he barked.

Arthur took a step back and the two people watching him came closer.

Stone appeared as suddenly as a mirage and grabbed Arthur's by the hand. "He's coming in with me, Nigel. Come on, Art."

The door slammed to very hard behind Arthur, enough to make him flinch. He opened his mouth to say he was getting the hell out of whatever seedy dive Stone spent his time getting pissed in and he placed the words meticulously in order in his mind so that he wouldn't waste time stumbling over his own tongue while he said it. But then the door opened.

The girl, he thought in fascination, had bright red hair. It was long- down to her waist- and dyed carroty red. A bottle-haired tart, his mother would have called her. Though not in public, no. A woman never used that language in public. She'd whisper it to herself in the privacy of a quiet corner as she watched the girl swishing down the street from her kitchen window.

She smiled a wide, white smile at him and the glitter on her eyelids shimmered at him in the soft light. "New here, are we?"

Once again, Stone took Arthur by the hand and tugged him along after him. Arthur craned his head back to get one last fascinated look at the girl. She tossed another smile at him and waved at him, bright red hair dark in the soft light. The dark blue suit looked almost black, too. Arthur might have stared for longer if he hadn't noticed that there were a lot people staring back at him.

He looked around, and his eyes got wider and wider. Ferns obscured the walls and velvet curtains waited to shield all those interesting little alcoves with intimate places. Men, women, boys and girls- they all swept around like a host of gloriously coloured butterflies, all delicate cloth and fragile bodies. Porcelain figures walking in surreal luxury. The hat Stone had donned again when he exited the taxi had been pulled off once more and a waitress appeared before them, her dyed red hair cut short and her glittered eyes respectfully lowered as she took the hat and coat.

Arthur celebrated the loss of that proprietary hand on his arm by turning in a slow circle and taking it all in. Chandeliers, he noted in a daze, though not lit to fill the rooms with a blaze of light. There was a stage at one end, with the velvet curtain pulled across the front. Tables with candlelight dotted around. And right in front of the stage was a wide, empty space, constructed especially for standing, or for dancing. A few young couples were there, twirling around in each other's clutches with loud laughter.

"Arthur?"

He spun back around and his jaw dropped. Brian smiled at him and jerked his head at the waiting hostess. "Our table is ready. They don't like the clients to stand around in the entrance."

Arthut followed without question. It was all too much. There was too much here that made no sense. What was an obviously luxurious bar doing here, why was it filled with the beautiful people of a decade ago and why had Stone brought him here?

They were sat down, they were fussed over, and then the waitress slipped expertly away and left them in the best of the private little alcoves.

"I left the curtains open," Brian said, "The show should start soon and we shouldn't miss it. I think you'll like it."

Arthur nodded dumbly and looked down at his hands.

Brian waited for some reaction, any kind of reaction, and he tried to catch the reporter's eye but Arthur wouldn't look up no matter how he shifted his head. Pale faced and tight lipped and Brian suddenly wasn't so sure any more. Curt had said the man missed his youth but then Curt could be wrong. Brian leaned back and gave him his space.

Not that it didn't affect him either, he reflected. Just walking into La Glace was like jumping into the past. A past he had lived, had even helped create. A great place, La Glace, but deathly dangerous. So beautiful it made the rest of the world seem unappealing. So poisonous that too much could kill you. He looked around and the older people were the same desperate faces he had seen the last time, less than a year ago. They sat in corners, watching the pretty young things discover the glamour all over again, living vicariously through their eyes. And then, when the young things were drunk on their own adrenaline, the older ones would move in for the kill and suck the innocence from them like leeches.

Brian Slade knew these things. He'd seen both. He'd done both.

The last time, he mused, Curt had been there beside him. Curt had sat there and sniffed and wiped his nose and looked cynically out at all the pretty young things with his cynical eyes. And then had proceeded to disturb the peace something cruel. Brian had been so embarrassed. They'd gone their separate ways a month later- sadder, but wiser people.

Arthur was still staring at his own hands on the tablecloth.

The waitress- what was her name again- came over with the usual compliments of the house. Brian didn't need to look; it was the best champagne La Glace stocked. Magnificent stuff. It fizzed and bubbled in the glasses and Arthur still didn't look up. He didn't seem to even notice that there was a glass beside him.

The waitress was surprised and looked uncertainly at Brian.

The rock star shook his head and sent her away with a wave of his hand. No toast evidently. He raised his glass to Arthur's averted head and drank it all. Then he poured himself another and waited. "Are you going to look up sometime tonight?" he asked aloud.

The hands twitched.

"I won't eat you, you know," Brian coaxed. He reached across and pushed the glass closer. "You'll feel better when you drink something. Go on. Have a taste. It's good; I promise." He sipped at his own glass and relaxed as the alcohol flowed into his bloodstream.

It took another few minutes, but eventually the reporter lifted his head and looked around. At first, it was just blind glances from the corner of his eyes. Then it was nervous staring. After that Arthur looked at his host and warily touched the glass still sitting before him.

Brian Slade poured himself a third glass just to be good company. "A toast," he suggested, smiling softly, "To youth and beauty."

Arthur didn't toast but he did drink. He sipped cautiously, made a face, and took another larger gulp.

"Easy! You don't want to get drunk just yet." Slade laughed softly and tipped his head to the side, well aware that the candlelight highlighted the mould of his face and cast interesting shadows in the hollows of his cheeks and temples. He knew he didn't need make-up to conjure up his youth in this light. He knew that the platinum hair was downplayed by the candlelight to gold and dark.

Arthur's smile was painfully forced, and vanished almost as suddenly as it had arrived, leaving his face as pale and sharp as Brian's. He concentrated on the steady burn of alcohol slipping down his throat and got his head back together.

"About those questions," he said firmly, "I was wondering, how do you write your… music? Is there a process? Do you just sit and write it?"

Brian looked surprised but he answered it readily enough- "Yes and no, I guess. Some songs just pop into my head and stay there, some I have to think about."

Arthur nodded and pulled the dictaphone out of his pocket. "D'you mind?" he asked casually, switching it on, "My boss. Wants me to be extra careful. What would you think is most important to you as an artist?"

"Lots of things. Integrity, of course. Music is nothing without integrity. You have to be true to the way you feel." Brian didn't resume his awful American drawl again, even when he heard he was being taped. "And most of all you have to be true to art itself. I'm not a superman," he added self-consciously, "I can only sing about things."

Arthur was in a strange quandary. He wanted to laugh at the surreality of it all. Personally speaking, he didn't believe a word Stone said. But Stone obviously did. He couldn't laugh without insulting his host, and he didn't really want to do that. "I see," he said cautiously, "And what are your thoughts about this new show, here?"

"In England? Oh, I can't wait. This show is going to be huge, bigger than anyone's ever seen it. Did you know…"

And that was when Arthur knew he had made a mistake. Brian Slade had abandoned his glass of champagne, arms crossed on the table so he could lean forward, pinprick flames dancing in his pupils as he glittered and smiled in excitement. In _true_ excitement. He hadn't even glittered like that in any of the glossy magazines. Reddened lips, still wet from the alcohol, flushed cheeks and that long slender, white neck- perfectly at peace in this mausoleum of lost dreamers.

Arthur looked away compulsively, grateful that music was starting. Grateful that the pretty, young things had begun to squeal in ecstasy, still hanging on to each other, but no longer swaying together. He was very grateful that Brian stopped too, and turned to gaze at the stage with eager eyes.

"You'll like this," the rock star said, "It's a new act. Jack only got them a few months ago. So far, everyone loves them."

Arthur swallowed and turned in his seat, focusing all the confusion on the stage. Stage shows were good. Stage shows were easy. Stage shows were not complex at all because they were exactly what they seemed. No more, no less. He cleared his throat and leaned an arm on the table to prop his head.

The lights dimmed as a voice from nowhere proclaimed that the show was about to start. The startling swish of velvet and then a figure loomed into Arthur's direct vision. Or perhaps 'loomed' was the wrong word? The thin figure with its velvet suit was so unassuming at first glance that he had been in Arthur's direct line of sight for a while before the reporter had even seen him.

Jack Fairy silently joined them at the table, a cocktail in hand and a smile upon his painted mouth. Older, less flamboyant, but still Jack Fairy.


	11. 11

Things were going from surreal to dream-like.

The minute that the Flaming Creatures got off-stage, Arthur got up in a daze and wandered towards them. Brian and Jack didn't stop him, and he didn't even consider that they might.

Minutes later, Malcolm was jumping up and down and throwing his arms around his neck and Ray was exclaiming very loudly about the shocking state of his clothes and hair and the other two were shooting him big smiles as they tried to get a word in edge-wise.

"We only started two weeks ago," Malcolm explained, "How did you find this place?"

"I, er, came with a friend," Arthur evaded. He paused for a moment and looked at the four of them. "It sounded good," he said, and meant it.

Ray sashayed towards him and planted a soft kiss on his cheek before turning him around to stare out over the club. "Beautiful place, isn't it?" he whispered, "A marble mausoleum of dead ideas."

Arthur noticed lines in the other man's face.

"Take my advice and forget all about this place."

Arthur looked around and the waitress at the door with the long red hair caught his eye again. She smiled and waved at him, almost seeming to beckon him over. And then he saw Brian Slade talking to Jack Fairy and what a photo opportunity _that_ was!

"Is that Tommy Stone?"

Arthur shuffled his feet and Ray began to laugh next to him.

"My, my, my! All grown up and fucking rock stars, are we?"

"Shove it, Ray."

His tall companion bent just enough to brush his lips across his ear. "Gladly. But I'm afraid Mr. Stone might be upset."

Eventually Arthur had to leave, a little embarrassed and still a little stunned, but so excited about meeting his old friends again that he went back to his table with a smile. Jack Fairy was gone, but Brian Slade was still drinking moodily.

"Sorry 'bout that," the reporter mumbled, "Old friends."

"How do you know them?" Brian asked, the cloudy haze of alcohol clearing disconcertingly from his grey eyes.

"I stayed with Ray for a while." Arthur wasn't that happy just yet. He wasn't going to go into details about leaving home or staying with the Flaming Creatures while he sorted himself out. He didn't say a word about the fact that he'd travelled with them and that his big break came from covering their concerts for small magazines.

"I see."

Arthur watched the glass rise and fall, watched as it was re-filled and steadily emptied again. Brian was drinking with all the concentration of someone steadily looking forward to passing out. It wasn't fast enough to make him sick, and it wasn't slow enough to be indulgent. It was a business-like endeavour that made Arthur very uncertain of what to do next.

"What's Jack Fairy doing here?" he asked bluntly.

Tired eyes snapped up, more dark pupil than grey iris. "He owns the places," the rock star intimated, "Rather, he manages it for me."

"It's a nice place."

"It's poison."

"Tha's a bit harsh, isn't it?"

"Not if it's the truth." The glass was finally empty and this time Brian didn't refill it instantly. "We should go," he said, though he made no move to get up.

Arthur looked around and the hostess with the red hair was still watching him. This time the dark threw freakish shadows into her face, turning her into a papery-grey wraith with flaming hair. Her face looked gaunt and skeletal and her hands looked like claws as she fluttered her fingertips at him.

Brian Slade watched the reporter shudder and turn away, oddly satisfied at seeing the other man's discomfort. After all, this was what Arthur Stewart had held so sacred, wasn't it? This was the world of Jack Fairy and Brian Slade and Curt Wild. In another decade in another world, anyone let into such a club would have seen beautiful creatures with wild eyes and red mouths poised languidly at the best tables. And Arthur had worshipped that world without realizing how ghoulish it really was.

"Glamour can be such a misleading thing," Brian murmured, "It creates a mask, and the mask becomes everything."

Arthur shook his head and forced himself to look at the waitress again. She moved to greet someone else and the shadows slipped away from her as she stepped into the dim light of a wall sconce. He told himself that it was all a trick of the light. It couldn't be more than that. She wasn't some kind of monster waiting to devour the hapless. She was just a girl, and she was just doing her job. Nothing suspect about that.

"You should stop drinking," Arthur said sternly, "I'm not carrying you out of here."

"Are you telling me or ordering me?" Brian poured himself the next glass with remarkably steady hands.

Arthur's hands were just as steady. He placed his over the mouth of the glass and used the other to take the bottle away. Then he lifted the hand on the glass and beckoned a waitress imperiously over to their table. "Take this away," he said tersely, "And we'll 'ave some water."

Brian caught the waitress's eye and she looked as if Arthur had just demanded to be served rat in the best restaurant in London. He hated it when people curled their lip in just that fashion. More than he hated people trying to tell him what to do.

"Get the bloody water," he barked, "Or I'll have your job."

The waitress jumped and scurried away.

Arthur glared at him for his interruption but didn't say a word. Instead, he played with the hem of his shirt.

"We can go somewhere else if you don't like the place." Stone was back, bluff American niceness veiling the thinly disguised British sneer.

Arthur looked at him, watched the shadows turn him into something even more terrifying than the hostess had been, and shrugged in resignation. "We still have that damned interview to do," he said, "I have a plane to catch tomorrow."

Ray had been right. It was better to just forget. Besides, whatever Jack Fairy had tried to do to this place, it was nothing to do with Glam. Arthur remembered Glam. And this was nothing like it. This was some perverted, mutated version of the glitter of those times. But the actual vision? It was laughably different.

"What do you see yourself doing in the future?" he asked politely, "Any big plans once this is over?"

"Arthur, Arthur, Arthur." Brian had certainly drunk more than was good for him. His accent was fluctuating, swinging from one persona to another. He leaned forward, light sparking in his pupils. "Don't you know it hasn't even begun?"

"So there's another record in the works?" Arthur pursued.

"No." Stone took the glass of water with barely a glance at their new waitress. "No record. I never plan my music. Can't do it, you see."

"What's that s'pposed to mean?"

"You can't plan where to go next. There are things I want to try, different paths I want to explore. There's a whole world out there and I've always wanted to be a movie star. You know, like Gable and Grant; have my name in lights. Yeah, I could live with that. It's worth exploring at least."

"That sounds…" Arthur tried to think of a word, "… sounds exciting. Can we expect anything soon?"

Stone laughed and dragged a hand through his blond hair. "I'm in talks with a couple of people," he evaded, "Nothing set in stone just yet. But I am taking a look at other things."

"Like what?"

"Fashion." The look on Arthur's face was enough to make Brian's knowing grin widen as he reached out to touch the other man's hand. "A designer friend of mine wants to collaborate with me for his next season. I supply the big name; he supplies the labour. We both decide on the designs. Would it be so horrible?"

Arthur thought of that. It would, but he couldn't say so with any politeness.

Brian didn't take his silence as an insult. Instead, he was fully sensible to what the younger man was thinking. He could read it in the tense line of Arthur's jaw, and in the way he fiddled with the dictaphone on the table. "Anything else?" he asked gently.

"What keeps you going?" Arthur asked.

Stone looked confused.

"You know, what makes you want to do what you do? Like, do you have a personal philosophy? Is there some message that you want to give your fans? Things like that."

Stone was pleasantly surprised. He hadn't expected Arthur Stewart to ask something quite so delicate. After all, it wasn't a question that most reporters asked so bluntly. They tended to engage him in a discussion on his work and then hint that maybe he had some kind of hidden agenda to divulge.

"I think the art says it all," he answered slowly, "Interpretations are different for different people. But the art is always, in and of itself, the only thing that matters."

Arthur nodded and wondered who exactly was saying that. Was it Brian Slade speaking, or Tommy Stone? It didn't sound like either of them.

"What about you, Arthur? Do you have some personal philosophy? Some message you want to give your readers? What makes you do the things you do?" Brian considered it only fair play. If he had to bare his soul- figuratively speaking- to a complete stranger, he might as well have the complete stranger let him in on a few personal privacies.

Arthur shut off the dictaphone and slipped it into his pocket. "It's got nothing to do with me," he mumbled.

Brian raised an eyebrow and suddenly those light-hazed grey eyes slipped from Arthur's shoulder to latch onto a surprisingly ironic smirk. The band from before were congregated at the bar, arms full of various friends or groupies. Sometimes, in La Glace, it was hard to know the difference. But two of them sat slightly apart, their respective companions almost an afterthought as they sent curious glances to the best table in the club.

Malcolm was his usual bouncy self, chattering softly even as he stared openly at Tommy Stone with round eyes. Ray wasn't talking. His fingers were twisting into the fabric on his girl's shoulder as he looked between Arthur's averted profile and Tommy Stone's direct gaze.

Arthur turned with a small frown and then started as he recognized who it was his companion was staring at. He smiled at Malcolm's friendly wave and nodded before ducking his head in embarrassment.

Brian summoned the new waitress, tossing a charming smile her way before whispering something in her ear.

Arthur didn't trust either Brian Slade or Tommy Stone when they were secretive. He stiffened in his seat and curled his fingers around the edge of the table, ready to run if need be. The waitress was completely oblivious of his wild eyes following her back as she went to the two musicians sitting so amiably to the side of the room and faithfully relayed her message.

Malcolm made the decision for everyone- as Malcolm always did- and in less time than it took for Arthur to calm down, the band had dropped their friends and fans to saunter across the room and take their places at the table.

Tommy Stone smiled up at them with his usual mix of enthusiasm and reserved amiability. "Great show," he complimented, "When Arthur told me he knew you, I insisted on meeting up. Sit down, sit down! Can I get you something to drink?"

The band was very cool and Arthur marvelled at how easily they slipped into a friendly conversation with the rock star. He was still pondering that when Ray placed a discreet hand on his knee under the table and leaned into his side.

"You want to leave, you tell me," the guitarist whispered.

Brian caught the brief exchange, along with the shake of Arthur's dark head. He wasn't blind. He was also experienced. He knew what it meant when an arm shifted in just that way, or when a hand came back up from under the table with that casually negligent look on its owner's face. And he narrowed his eyes in speculation.

Friends. From where Brian Slade was sitting, Arthur had met a very personal old friend. And wasn't that a surprise, indeed!


	12. 12

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone for being so patient with me. I know it's been slow going, but I hope you can forgive me that.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"It's funny how beautiful people look when they walk out the door," Brian Slade said.

Arthur started, wide-eyed as he heard a wistful female voice echo the exact words. But he shook his head and refused to take it as a sign. The man sitting in the chair opposite him was not the same man he had worshipped in the magazines a lifetime ago.

Brian lifted the wet towel again and stared morosely at the brown and rust stains. He felt better without his make-up. And he was getting very tired of having to apply it every morning, touching it up every few hours. It had been so enjoyable in the beginning, so furtive and fun. To play a part. To be famous again, even if he couldn't do it as himself.

"They seem to like you very much," he said, tossing the towel onto the low table between them.

"We're friends."

"Friends don't always have to like you," Brian muttered, "Sometimes they just want something you can give them."

Arthur shifted and thought of the paper in his pocket. The one Malcolm had given him with his number on it. The singer had insisted he give them a call so they could meet properly- for old time's sake, Malcolm had laughed. They usually kept in touch with the occasional letter and phone call. But they hadn't met in eight years. Arthur didn't want to think it, but he wondered what they had in common now that they moved in different worlds. He wasn't a teenaged music fan, any more. What would they talk about?

"I'm going to bed," he said abruptly.

Brian thought of the look the tall guitarist had given his reporter when they'd finally left the club. There was a history there, of that he was certain. But evidently not a great one because Arthur was more depressed since they had come back to the hotel. The man was actually swaying on his feet, eyes turned down to his shoes, hands stuck deep inside his pockets. He fairly crackled with energy.

"Sure, sure," the rock star said, waving a vague hand at him, "Be my guest." He waited until Arthur was almost at the door between their rooms before clearing his throat. "You know, it would be a shame if you left tomorrow. The concert's in two days and I was looking forward to seeing what you think of the pandemonium backstage." He grinned disarmingly, even though Arthur didn't turn around. That dark head seemed to drop even lower.

"I have to get back to work," Arthur mumbled.

"Lou gave you a few more days."

"I can go home and…" Arthur stopped and thought about it as best he could. He could go home, certainly. But there was nothing to go home to- an empty apartment and a lingering sense of wanting to take everything inside and turn it into something great.

"Go home and?" Brian prompted. Softly, he cautioned himself, gently. Loud noises frightened the tentative trust away. Loud noises would wake up the sleeping guards that kept Arthur locked away from the rest of the world. And Brian liked to dig into mysterious people and hear their thoughts tick.

"Sleep."

"Are you tired?"

Arthur shrugged again and put a hand out to turn the handle. It felt too cold and too heavy. His fingers almost slipped right off the metal. But his sluggish brain got itself together for long enough to get the door open.

Brian watched the other man leave the room. But the door stood open and he was faced with the dilemma of turning away politely or staring unashamedly. He looked down at his hands and then looked back up again. Arthur wasn't in view, but then the bedside light was on.

Brian got up and walked over to the door, unable to stifle his curiosity.

Arthur looked up but his mind couldn't register that Brian Slade was standing in his doorway. And it was Brian. That horrible make-up was gone, leaving only pale skin on shapely bone, full lips resting softly together as those steady grey eyes levelled a curious stare at him. So he looked away disinterestedly and got on with the business of changing his clothing. That finished, he went to the bathroom and stared at his reflection in the mirror for a while.

"Art? Are you okay?" Brian was worried now. The reporter looked so small, hunched into himself as if his bones were crumbling away inside his skin.

"Fine." It was more of an automatic response than a reassurance.

Brian nodded and let the man brush his teeth in peace. He moved around the bedroom, searching for something to occupy his rambling attention. After that interesting trip to the club, the singer was in something of a restless mood. He couldn't sleep, and he couldn't sit quietly in his room and drink himself into a stupor.

Arthur came out, his hair slightly damp. He didn't look at Brian but slipped straight into his bed, curling up with his knees to his chest and the blankets pulled up almost to his nose.

Brian raised an eyebrow in surprise. "Are you sure you're alright?" he asked hesitantly.

Arthur stared blindly ahead, not responding.

"Arthur?" Brian sat down cautiously on the edge of the bed and reached out a hand. The blankets were cold under his hand. "Art?"

The man turned over effortlessly. He blinked his dark eyes and opened his mouth to say something.

Brian leaned down and kissed him.

Arthur held still. Then he shut his eyes, gasped a little, and opened his mouth wider.

Brian pulled away and looked back down at him.

Arthur blinked again. "What the 'ell was that?" he asked thickly.

Brian bit his lip and tilted his head. He waited for Arthur to move, to tell him he was sick for even thinking such a thing. He waited to hear denial and outrage or even just disinterest. But Arthur just looked at him and those lips were slightly parted for breath.

Arthur reached up and caught the rock star by the back of his head, pulling him clumsily back down. He growled and cursed briefly when it didn't quite work, angling his head and propping himself up on an elbow. Then he attacked again.

Brian managed a small sound of amusement before an insistent tongue pushed into his mouth. Slick and warm and sinuous and he was pleasantly surprised by how aggressive his partner was. He kissed back just as hard.

And just like that it was easy. There was no question of past or future or imaginary wrongs or rights. It didn't matter about Brian Slade's music when he keened softly in just way when Arthur sucked on his neck. It didn't matter about the shooting hoax when Brian's fingers dug viciously into Arthur's back and Brian's hips rocked against Arthur's hips.

Arthur didn't believe it. He lifted his head as the fire in his blood ebbed briefly, and he couldn't understand quite who it was in his bed. But Brian wasn't similarly afflicted. He knew who it was. Some part of his brain was already engaged in planning for the morrow. When Arthur finally succumbed with a hoarse groan, the rock star followed soon after, silent and thinking about how the next morning should be handled.

Arthur went to sleep.

Brian didn't.

He got out of bed and reached for his hastily discarded clothes. He pulled on his trousers and did up the buttons of his shirt. He told himself that they hadn't had sex. They had only touched each other- sexual pleasure shared between acquaintances. They'd been carried away by the night's happenings.

Arthur mumbled when the door clicked shut. He did open his eyes, but he sank back again into sleep without a whimper.

"Shannon?" Brian knocked on the door with all the rising panic beginning to fluctuate in his head. "Shannon! Open the fucking door!"

"What?" She was in her dressing gown and clearly annoyed. "What now?" She took one look at him and pulled him in, slamming the door shut. "What did you do?" Shannon demanded, blue eyes hard and snapping.

"Get rid of the reporter," Brian ordered, "He's interfering with my work. I can't concentrate with him tagging along."

Hands on hips, Shannon surveyed the wreckage of her client. It was the middle of the night- or the early morning, depending on when one had to be awake again- and she had been in the middle of some much needed beauty sleep. She spent her days and frequently her nights making sure Tommy Stone was pampered and petted and stroked well enough to do what he had been born to do. But once in a while she wondered if she couldn't just leave him to fumble his own way through life.

"What did you do?" she asked quietly.

The rock star stopped pacing and looked at her. From the look on her face, Tommy Stone knew better than to make vaguely outraged noises. He sat down, settled himself and said, "We had an episode."

Shannon knew what 'an episode' meant. Tommy Stone had had a few 'episodes' with a few other young men. The reporter from the Herald wasn't quite his usual type, but Shannon had suspected something would go wrong since Arthur had turned up after the concert with his disconcerting news. Dark hair, dark eyes and a pale, long face that didn't seem to smile very much. Very interesting. Brian liked interesting things.

Tommy Stone, however, knew better than that. Drunkenly having sex with some nameless stagehand or crewmember was alright. Shannon could deal with it. A little bit of warning and a lot of money made most of them slink back into nowhere. But a reporter from the Herald? Not possible.

She sighed and sat down opposite him. "Alright," she murmured, dragging a hand through her blond hair, "Alright, relax. I'll think of something. Where is he?"

"Asleep."

She raised an eyebrow. She'd have expected a reporter to be typing up the scandal immediately. Then again, she wondered if Arthur would be quite so free with his news if it meant having to explain his part in it.

She could see the headlines: 'Superstar Singer Not So Straight' would be the most amateur of them all. But it would be suspect if Arthur wrote it in the first person. What could he say- "And then this reporter was blown by the Rock God himself"?

"I might have an idea," she said slowly, tapping a nail against her chin, the wheels of her mind clacking merrily, "How far did you go?"

"No sex."

Shannon knew the code. No sex meant no penetration. That was good; Arthur couldn't claim rape. "Good," she reassured, "The first thing we have to do, is get him away from you. We change his room, Tommy. Tommy? Tommy!"

He looked up again with a start. "Yeah. Of course."

"Focus. You got into this mess and you can bloody well listen to me while I get you out of it." Shannon reached automatically for her purse, clicking her tongue in irritation when she had to get it from her bedroom. "Was he drunk?"

"No."

She came back, lit cigarette in hand and a guarded look on her pretty face. "Drugged?" she said expressively.

Tommy Stone self-consciously rubbed his nose. "No," he swore, "He didn't take anything."

"Did you?"

The itch was intensifying and his skin was beginning to crawl. "Bloody hell, what is this- the Spanish fucking Inquisition?"

"I'm covering your arse, Tommy, so just tell me," Shannon snapped. She sucked in another lungful of nicotine.

"No, I didn't fucking get high. I don't do that any more." He rubbed his nose again and felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. "Christ!" Bounding to his feet, he made straight for the liquor cabinet.

"Ah-ah!" Shannon shouted, intercepting him on the way. "No more alcohol. You're drunk too much, Tommy, and you've got to stop. I can't keep the bills hidden any more than I already do. Stay sober for a few more days. Just a few."

She gave him her cigarette and he took an absent-minded drag before handing it back with a long, slow exhale.

"Alright," he said. "Fuck, I need a break."

"You haven't even done the show, yet," Shannon said severely, "And tomorrow you have that television interview. You'll have to play, of course. I told you we should have scheduled a practise today. Can you manage it?"

"Yeah, sure," he muttered, "We can do 'Veronica'. It plays well live."

"The band knows it?"

"They'd better. We've played it often enough. Do we have a run-through tomorrow?"

Shannon nodded.

"That will do." Tommy Stone took a deep breath and concentrated. "Okay, so I have the show tomorrow. And this thing with Arthur Stewart?"

"I'll handle it," Shannon assured him reluctantly, "Like I always do. Go sleep in my room. I have a few calls to make."


	13. 13

Author's Note: I've really been away a while, haven't I? Sorry. I went on vacation for a month to visit family and didn't have the chance to write up anything. I hope this makes up for it.

-------------------------------------------------------

Arthur woke up the next day to the middle of the morning, when a phone call from reception told him that he had a visitor. He mumbled something into the phone and slammed it down.

He'd had the most surreal dream. He hadn't dreamt of… he hadn't dreamt.

Arthur put up his hands to stifle a groan of despair. Of all the insane things to have done, having any kind of close encounter with Tommy Stone was the worst. What had he been thinking of? He couldn't remember. It hadn't been very much for he could only recall a type of vague blankness.

That was it! He hadn't been in his right mind! Stone must have done something. He must have said something. Arthur wouldn't put it passed him.

Except that there was no conceivable reason why Tommy Stone would want to do anything to him. They barely got along! Arthur was a shit to him, he fully admitted it. Why would a man who could have anyone he wanted, seduce a reporter of no discernible attraction?

The phone rang again.

"Mr. Stewart? Mr. Stone is waiting for you in the lobby."

Mr. Stone was waiting. The article. The paper. Lou would kill him if he didn't get everything he possibly could. His boss liked him, but the story always came first; reporters could be dispensed with.

The man groaned again and stumbled to his feet, hurriedly pulling on a pair of trousers he snatched up from the chair. Being naked was too much of a reminder. Stone could wait, however- he needed a shower desperately.

There was no time to panic. Shower. Teeth. Dress. Hair. Out. In that particular order.

He was still stuffing books and a camera into his backpack when he hopped onto the elevator. A woman in a fur coat looked him over and turned her head disdainfully. Arthur didn't even bother to flush. He was too busy trying to wake up.

There was a distressingly gentle relaxation in his veins and he shifted uncomfortably, trying to find some way to alleviate the post-sex afterglow. Even his bones and muscles seemed to have relaxed, leaving his body in a languid slump. If he didn't concentrate, he would fall headfirst to the floor. But he concentrated. And he got off the elevator in one piece.

Tommy Stone was certainly waiting for him in the lobby, bland smile turned his way. Shannon was just as expressionless, cold and rigid as she always was, clipboard in hand and soft voice barking down the phone at the front desk. She shot him a veiled look of contemplation before turning away to get on with her work.

Arthur felt his face flush. She obviously knew.

"Arthur," Stone called pleasantly, "You never mentioned company, pal."

Arthur almost turned and went back up to his bed.

Stone was sitting down in a dark wood chair, a glass of orange juice in hand as he chatted amiably to an old woman. An old woman, Arthur noted bitterly, who looked a lot like the woman in his childhood photos.

"Mum," he said dully, offering her a weak smile, "When did you get here?"

"I took the bus, Arthur. Mr. Stone was most kind." She stood up and looked at him uncertainly.

Arthur tamped down the urge to snort and just kissed her cheek, offering her the chair again as he carefully avoided Stone's grey eyes. "The trip weren't too bad, eh?"

"No, not too bad." Mrs. Stewart bit her lip and fidgeted with her purse. "How is New York?"

"Good. Good."

"Must be very big."

"Yeah."

"And the traffic must be terrible. All those crowds and people everywhere."

"Yes, Mum."

"Do- do you drive, Arthur?"

Those cool grey eyes were fixed on his face and Arthur Stewart couldn't think of a simple topic of conversation. "No," he said, "I don't drive."

"Oh," she nodded. Once again she fidgeted with her purse. But this time she opened it and rummaged inside. "One of the Newcome girls went to New York for her honeymoon- do you remember Celia?- and she came back with this. She thought it was very good."

The newspaper clipping was tattered and old, both from the three years of its age and from being kept in a clutch bag. But Arthur felt even more ill-at-ease looking down at his own work from three years ago. It was unbearably sad, really, to think that this was all his Mum had to remind her of her son. She'd been quite proud of him. She always said how clever he was. She used to boast and he used to get so embarrassed about it. And now this.

"Which is it?" Stone broke in.

Arthur looked up and answered the challenge by passing it over. "An old piece," he evaded, "Not my best."

Stone scanned it and handed it gallantly back to Mrs. Stewart. "Don't listen to him," he joked, "He's telling it all wrong. I remember when he did a piece on…"

Arthur cringed inwardly. Stone had read some of his work! Well, not that he was very bad at what he did- Lou wouldn't hire him if he was- but it was appalling to generate the lie that his business here had anything to do with his writing skills. He was here because Brian Slade was bribing him.

Perhaps that was why Stone had let last night happen? As a little insurance policy? Blackmail?

Arthur felt sick to see that slender hand making all those extravagant gestures in the air. Those hands had touched him intimately and by rights those hands should not show themselves so brazenly to his mother, flaunting before her eyes. It wasn't right! And if she knew, she would be just as disgusted as she always was.

"Isn't that right, Art?"

"Yeah." Arthur hadn't a fucking clue what Stone was on about. But anything to keep the conversation from continuing- "Mum, we have work to do. Mr. Stone has a show tonight and he needs to go. If you're staying, then maybe we can have dinner…"

"Arthur! No, I insist, Mrs. Stewart, you can't go back tonight. If I'd known you were coming I'd have cancelled my appointments."

Arthur coloured again and Mrs. Stewart went paler than she normally was.

"But anyway, you're here now. So, no argument, let me take the two of you out for dinner tonight. Shannon can get you a room here and anything else you want. I'll bring Arthur back as soon as we finish."

"I'm sure my mother needs to get back to…"

"No, I can stay, Arthur," Mrs. Stewart cut in. She gave him a tight smile that didn't reach her blue eyes. "The house gets so lonely sometimes."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur after that. Arthur was vaguely glad that Stone arranged everything in his usual bluff, hearty way. The rock star put the old woman at her ease, nodding to Shannon to get things settled to his satisfaction, and then shepherding Arthur out to the waiting limousine as if it was entirely natural that he accompany him.

"Breathe," Tommy Stone commanded, sliding into the limo after him, "Don't you fucking pass out on me. I don't have the time to get you to the fucking hospital."

"'M not passin' out," Arthur snapped. He lifted his hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"We're late," Stone said cryptically. And then his voice became softer, almost reluctantly. "How did you sleep?"

"I don't want to talk about it. And don't say a sodding word to my Mum, okay? She doesn't like that sort of thing."

Tommy Stone laughed softly and he leaned forward with Brian Slade's mocking grin. "Oh, poor Arthur! What did Mummy do to hurt you?"

"Shut up, you fucking wanker."

"Traffic, Mr. Stone. I don't think we can make it in time."

Stone swore under his breath and forgot about his companion. He picked up the phone in the limo and put a call through to the Shannon, telling her to let the people know he was late for the rehearsal. The band could go ahead and do a run-through without him, but he was going to be stuck for a while.

Damn England! He was always late in England. Something always went wrong.

Tommy Stone really did hate it.

He brooded out of the window for fifteen minutes while the cars crawled around him and tried to get a look through the tinted windows. He was dying to roll down the windows and toss them the bird for their impertinence but he didn't dare. At the pace the traffic was moving, he might get mobbed.

"Where are we going?" Arthur asked.

It was too much like the night before. La Glace had been a bad idea. "I've got an evening show on Casey's. I'm on my way to rehearsal."

Arthur took out the recorder and his notebook. "Mind if I get a little work done 'ere?" he asked casually. As casually as he could.

"Go ahead. Got any more questions? You might as well ask now."

"This show at Casey's, what will you be singing?"

"The song 'Veronica'," Stone answered distractedly, "Got a cigarette on you?"

"Me? No. I don't smoke."

"You don't smoke?"

"No."

"I thought all reporters smoked."

"I don't," Arthur insisted, scribbling busily in his notebook, "Do you?"

"No, I'm asking because I like the look of them! Of course, I bloody smoke. What else would I do with a cigarette?" Stone rubbed his nose unobtrusively. His fingers were itching and he was getting those phantom pains again. "I need a fag."

Too late, he realized what he had said.

Arthur's pen stopped and he was white with anger, his knuckles echoing the chalky appearance as his fingers dug into the pen. "What do you mean by that?" he asked quietly, looking up.

"Nothing. A fag's a cigarette, isn't it?" Stone snarked, "And I need a fucking cigarette."

"That's not what you said."

"It's what I said, Art."

"Bullshit!"

The older man raised a warning brow.

"I don't know what your fucking game is, but if you touch me again I will smash your face in," Arthur threatened, "Don't you think I won't. I'm not a fucking fag and I don't need you to fuck with me, alright?"

Stone waved the words away contemptuously, clicking his tongue in annoyance.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"You are a fag, Arthur. You liked it as much as I did, so don't go around pretending that I drugged you. I don't need to do that."

"You think I want you to touch me?"

"You didn't have a problem with it last night," Brian snarled, itching at the tickle on the back of his right hand.

"I weren't thinking right!"

"You're blaming me?" Brian's voice was getting darker, deeper, his full mouth thinning in a fury. "I'll have your balls for this, you half-arsed little shit. You knew exactly what I was doing. And you begged for more."

"I wouldn't beg you for a coin if I were starvin'," Arthur said scornfully.

Brian didn't even bother to reply to that. He only pounced, like an angry tiger with his claws out. But he didn't rip or tear. He grabbed the back of the reporter's head and brought their mouths together in a crashing kiss.

It hurt.

Bruised lips and a bitten tongue but the pain seemed just as much a part of it as the sheer delight of dragging his tongue as far over the roof of the younger man's mouth as it was possible to reach. Brian Slade had the bit well in hand and this was the only way he knew how. Arthur had responded to him, he had asked for it, even if he hadn't used words. He had liked it!

Brian had been called many things in his life but he wasn't a rapist. He wasn't! And Arthur had liked it.

Arthur had liked it. He still liked it even though the kiss hurt and the tongue was intrusive and the teeth that nipped at his mouth was harsh enough to make it sting. He hadn't felt it in so long, his brain reasoned wildly, of course it felt good! Anything would feel good after so long without any proper contact! It had nothing to do with Brian Slade or childhood dreams or sheer attraction.

Arthur pushed the rock star away and sat back, breathing hard and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Hell," he swore, licking his bruised lips to check for blood.

Brian did the same and sat back on his seat, automatically lifting his hands to straighten himself. His hair was a mess from those large hands and his clothes were rumpled. He looked thoroughly kissed, even if the embrace had been a battle rather than a need.

"Alright I liked it," Arthur admitted, "But I'm not a fag. And I'm not doing it again."

Stone shook his head and reached for the case kept permanently in the backseat of any vehicle he travelled in. Grabbing a mirror, he set to work to restore his make-up to pristine condition.

If the chauffeur had heard anything, he gave no indication of it.

The hired help were background noise to Tommy Stone and Stone had forgotten about their very existence. Besides, he didn't hire anyone unless he was sure of their discretion. And this chauffeur had been handpicked too, vetted both by Shannon and his security firm before being selected by his employer himself. Arthur wasn't so sure. He was too hyper-aware of himself, of the little telltale signs that were still left on his person.

But he ignored the self-conscious nagging at the back of his mind and got to work. There were two other guests scheduled for Casey's little talk show and Arthur got to talk to them for a few seconds on his subject. Did they know Tommy Stone? Had they met him before? What did they think of his new work? What were they currently doing? He took a few backstage photos and then got to talk to the band.

Tommy Stone didn't bother touching base with anyone. He went straight to his band, harassed them into position on stage and dragged them through a lightening-quick rendition of 'Veronica'. He didn't need to turn around and yell. His band knew him well enough to know that he was angry from the way he moved and from the way he didn't fool around. The second try was tighter, better, more fluid. Casey himself came out to shake hands and watch the rehearsal.

Tommy Stone still wasn't satisfied. "The sound's distorted," he said quietly, beckoning a sound engineer over to rectify the mistake. Then he turned, strode over to his bass player and yanked the guitar from him.

Arthur took a photo of that, catching the look of intense concentration as the rock star adjusted the strings to suit himself.

"You were out of tune," was all that Stone offered by way of explanation.

It didn't matter if he were right or wrong. If Tommy Stone demanded it, he got what he demanded. The bassist waited for the man to turn his back before hurriedly returning the instrument to its previous timbre. The drummer rolled his eyes and everyone got down to the business of keeping their heads down and the boss satisfied.

Arthur went off by himself and found a quiet spot somewhere. The song was terribly catchy; he could hear that. Unbidden, he began to hum along. The verses were horrible, a mangled love song to a girl who was cheating. But it was catchy.

"Not like the good old days, but I could get used to it," a female voice said.

Arthur craned around in surprise.

The girl was about his age, trouser suit neatly pressed and make-up flawless. She nodded in a friendly fashion and pulled up a chair next to him. She watched the performance for a little while and then held out her hand and grinned.

"Are you Arthur Stewart?" she said, interested, "Hi. We're always happy to welcome reporters from the New York Herald."

"Hi. Er, I didn't get your name, sorry."

"Oh! Actually, my name is Veronica," she laughed, "Great coincident, huh?"

"No. Really? Veronica?"

"Yeah. Veronica Fern."

Arthur nodded and let go of her hand, smiling at the bubbly enthusiasm wafting around her. She really sparkled. "I'm not in the way or something?" he asked.

"No, no! You're not in the way. I just came over to introduce myself. I work in the PR department and we wanted to make sure you got everything you needed. Mr. Stone asked that we make sure of it."

"Really?"

"He had his lawyers talk to us, so I suppose he really means it." She looked at Stone where the man had just stopped the band for the fourth time to give them further instructions. "He always takes the show seriously. Everything has to be just right. We're used to it by now."

Arthur frowned a little but didn't question her further on that. When she left with a last friendly smile backwards, he pulled out the notebook and scribbled it down. Even if it didn't make it into the article, he was intrigued by that.


	14. 14

Author's Note: Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year if I forget later on.

Author's Note 2: Just a quick thank-you to everyone who's been reading so far. I know it's dragging a bit to a black hole but I promise you it will pick up again. I just need to set the atmosphere. And character development. And plot details. Oh well, let's wait and see.

-------------------------------------------------

"It's nice to see you again, Arthur."

His mother always did call him by his full name. Even his father. "It's good to see you too," he said. And then he gave in to temptation- "How's Dad?"

"Fine. He's fine." It was too quick. Too easy.

But Arthur wasn't going to ask for more on that topic. It was off-limits. His dad hadn't ever wanted to talk to him the few times he called back home. Only his mum. And Arthur suspected she only spoke to him because she hoped desperately he would turn around one day and just be the little boy she'd been so proud of.

But he fucked men. Or did sometimes, at any rate. Not that he made a habit of it. But a few times. And she couldn't accept that. It was wrong! It was sinful! It was… oh, it was a score of things and moreover it made him a pansy, never mind that he liked girls quite as much as he liked men and at least he'd never gone out of his way to publicize his sexuality like so many of his kind did.

"Arthur?" His mother patted his arm awkwardly, "Arthur?"

"Hm? Yeah. Sorry. What were you saying?"

"I was asking about your work," she repeated.

"Oh. Work's good," he said. What else could he say? Work was fine. It was work. "I'm doin' a piece on Stone, now."

"You told me. Will it be a long article?"

"Yeah. For one of the weekender issues," Arthur explained, "Interview, photographs, everything."

"How nice of Mr. Stone to agree," she said innocently, thawing enough to smile fondly at her son, "There must be so much to write."

"Quite a bit." And Arthur wasn't even going to think of everything that he wasn't putting down, all the secrets that no one else knew about the rock star that he did. "He's got that show and then the TV appearance."

"Yes, his manager was telling me. So kind of him to insist on having dinner with us in the middle of everything."

"Yeah."

The silence descended again. Arthur wished he had taken Stone up on the offer to wait backstage at Casey's. Anything was better than these uncomfortable silences.

"Arthur, are you happy?"

That, he was certainly not expecting! He blinked a few times, trying to decide whether he had heard it right or was just imaging things. Imagining his mother's voice. Only, if he were to imagine it, he wouldn't make it sound so hopeless, would he? No, he'd imagine that she was her usual cheerful self, mincing along like most middle-class women of her type, twittering and matronly and oh, so very welcoming. Nothing like this grey woman sitting with him.

She seemed to realize how absurd it was herself, because she shook her head and waved it away. "Never mind," she said quickly, "I were thinking aloud."

"It's okay," he said, smiling a little for her, "Everything's… alright."

It sounded like a reassurance. That he wouldn't walk away again, at least.

"How's the family?" he asked.

"Aunt Maud had an operation last year," his mum said, "For the pain in her middle. Very frail, she's become. Her Geoff took her to live with him and Claire."

"Claire?"

"Ah." She adopted a very measured tone. "He got married a few months ago. A lovely wedding, it really was."

Arthur was thinking. "Claire Watts?"

"Yes."

"Claire Watts married Geoff." Arthur smiled to himself, twisting away a little so his mother couldn't see the bitterness in his face. "How long did they, er…"

"I don't know. But they were engaged for two years. Geoff didn't want to marry until he got his promotion and he- he does very well now."

"I bet he does."

"Arthur, don't be cruel. You never called her! And Geoff was there and she likes him. He's good to her."

"You mean he's not a fag."

"Arthur!"

"Sorry."

The poor woman twisted her handkerchief in her lap, openly awkward and on the verge of running away from it all.

Arthur felt it himself. Nothing had changed! The only reason his mum was anywhere in his vicinity was because she wanted to meet Tommy Stone. She hadn't had the time of day for him until he'd mentioned that. Well, she could meet him. She could get his autograph if she was lucky. And then she could go home.

And he wouldn't call her again.

Claire Watts! Good God!

"Mr. Stewart?" Shannon poked her head around the door and smiled thinly in apology for interrupting the uncomfortable silence. "We have something to discuss."

"Yeah. Yeah, of course." He got up and followed her out.

Shannon made sure to shut the door properly behind his back. And then she flipped her hair over her shoulder and fixed a cold blue-eyed gaze on him. Black and white suit with matching earrings and black pumps to complete the ensemble. She looked like a businesswoman and a powerful one to boot. Nothing at all to do with the sordid realities of her job as nursemaid.

"About your room, Mr. Stewart," she said crisply, "There's been a change of plans. Your things have been moved to Room 103 for the duration of this trip. Mr. Stone needs his space to prepare for tomorrow's performance."

Arthur flushed a little. He worked with reporters. And he had worked with musicians. He knew enough about both worlds to have a little inkling of what was going on. "Fine," he snapped, snatching the key away, "I'm going for a walk."

Shannon looked confused. "Mr. Stewart, your mother?"

"Can go to hell," he said bracingly.

The blond blinked a little in surprise, icy determination gone as she tried to process that thought.

Arthur walked. For a long time. Until his head began to settle. Until he didn't feel he was choking on the knot in his throat.

Everywhere else people were having a good time, either on their way to somewhere warm or coming back from somewhere warm. The snow was fresh- as fresh as it got in big cities- and children kicked it up as they whined that they wanted to go home because they were cold and tired.

He passed an electronics store with televisions in the window and Tommy Stone was there, chatting amicably about something.

Arthur couldn't hear a word, but he stood still in the snow and he watched.

A boy stood beside him and when Arthur glanced at him from the corner of his eye, the boy shifted and almost walked away, lifting his chin in a desperate attempt to appear unconcerned.

"He's a good singer," the boy said unexpectedly.

"I haven't heard him."

The boy looked at him as though he were crazy. As though he was some sort of lizard that had crawled out from under a rock for the first time.

"But he's so famous," the boy protested, "Everyone likes him."

Arthur thought of Brian Slade. Not everyone had liked Slade. Now even his mum loved Tommy Stone. Two different people; one person. "I heard him sing 'Veronica'," he offered.

The boy grinned sheepishly. "That's one of his best. You should listen to his others."

Arthur nodded and he left the boy to stare haplessly at the soundless television screens. He really needed a drink.

He wandered around a bit more, hailed a taxi, and got into it.

Ray wasn't particularly unhappy to see him, even if he did have company. But the solemn-faced woman sitting in the shabby apartment was introduced as a friend in the kind of off-hand manner that said the relationship was casual at best and more of a working partnership at worst.

Ray got rid of her pretty quick.

Arthur took her vacated seat and looked up to find a glass of neat whiskey hovering before his nose.

"Your favourite," the guitarist said, "Can't stand the stuff myself but I still keep a bit."

"For the bad times?"

"For the bad times."

Arthur accepted it and Ray sat down next to him, throwing a casual arm around his shoulders and settling in quite comfortably at such close quarters.


	15. 15

"Wake up, Arthur. Come on, luv. You've got work to do."

Arthur opened one very groggy eye and groaned deeply as his brain objected. "Go 'way," he mumbled.

"Arthur, I don't have all the time in the world."

This voice was different. Less of a soft drawl and that much more painful to listen to. Arthur knew this voice. He slitted one eye open again and sighed as he levered his head carefully off the hard pillow beneath his head.

"What d'you want?" he slurred.

Ray sat down on the bed beside him and silently handed him a glass of water, stroking his forehead and hair to soothe him. "Shut it and drink that," he said.

Arthur drank thirstily, spilling half of it in his haste. But his tongue didn't feel so much like lead any more. For which he could only be thankful. He licked his lips and tried again- "What are you doing here, Stone?"

"Came to find you," Stone said artlessly. He even offered a thin smile.

Arthur snorted, wished he hadn't and tried to untangle himself from the covers.

"Coffee, Arthur?"

"Please."

Ray made himself scarce, jerking away like the ungraceful marionette he was. All long limbs and gangly gait. Mincing along in bare feet and torn jeans.

Arthur didn't know how he still did it! He was freezing!

Stone was still standing there, waiting, hands in his pockets and suit neatly pressed. Completely at odds with the eccentric mess of the bedroom he was in. There was a purple scarf flung over the door and a mesh-thin t-shirt lying almost at those impeccably shod feet.

"Coffee."

Ray walked back in and dumped the cup sloppily on the table. Somehow he managed not to spill a drop. He seemed to notice the mess as well because he walked to Stone, holding those grey eyes in a mildly curious stare, and then bent down two steps away and picked up his mesh shirt. That went on and then he turned back to Arthur with a grin.

"The place gets so dirty," he laughed, "Got no one to clean it up, now, do I?"

Arthur just had to grin back. "Get Malcolm," he retorted.

"Malcolm? Bloody poofter would steal all my clothes."

Stone might just as well have not been there. But Arthur noticed a slight smile tugging on the corners of that mouth. It was hard to tell with all the make-up, but there! That muscle twitched again!

"Do you know a good cleaning lady?" Ray. With one of his absolutely straight-faced digs for the rock star.

Tommy Stone didn't bat an eyelash. He didn't even laugh. He only nodded gravely and said, "Garbage collectors."

Arthur bit his lip and angled his legs out of bed.

"Trousers, darling. Though I'm sure Mr. Stone won't object to your, er, lack," Ray sniped.

Arthur flushed and stuck his finger up at the older man. "Bugger off," he kindly suggested.

"Gladly, Arthur. But sadly no one will oblige these days."

Ray wandered off and carolled an off-tune nursery rhyme in the other room.

"One kitchen, one bedroom, and what passes as a sitting room." Brian Slade's grey eyes glanced around in a mixture of fond nostalgia and disdain. "Bloody rock martyrs."

"They didn't sell out."

"Man can't live on bread alone. Hurry up; I'm late."

"Turn your back," Arthur insisted mulishly.

Stone raised a blond brow. He didn't even need to speak. He only shrugged, turned his back and acted as if he were humouring an otherwise fractious child. He spent his time looking coolly up at that purple scarf with a contemplative air.

Arthur almost fell over struggling into his trousers. He bumped the table and the coffee spilt. He cursed a little and did up the zipper. Grabbing the nearest piece of what could hopefully be too old and frayed, he moped up the stuff and tossed it back to the floor.

"You finished or what?"

"You can turn around," Arthur said.

Stone turned around, glancing at the gold watch on his wrist in annoyance. "I'm late," he criticized.

"Arthur, do you want to eat?" Ray sauntered into the little room with a careful look of limpid innocence in his eyes for the man he walked around.

Stone seemed to stiffen.

Arthur made a face as his stomach turned over. "Don' even mention it," he pleaded, "God, my head."

"Nothing renders a man more vulnerable than drink," Ray laughed, tugging irreverently on a dark, dank lock of hair, "Shot of the best makes it all go away, luv."

"I'm not eating or drinking anything," Arthur said slowly, gripping the thin arms in his hands to signal how serious he was, "Nothing!"

"Careful!" Ray brushed the fingers away. "Don't damage the merchandize."

Arthur sighed. Ray was obviously in one of his difficult moods. The journalist didn't remember very much from the night before. He knew hazily that they had talked. He had said he hated Stone; Ray had said he thought the rock star was somewhat Arthur's type. Arthur had been insulted and Ray had laughed. Then Ray had consumed one drink too many and he had gone off on a rambling- and not very coherent- tangent of whether or not he was desirable any more.

"People don't understand us any more, Arthur," he'd mourned, "We're outcasts. Left to die in the cold, stark deserts of social rejection. It's a sea of ignorance, Arthur, and we're the ones without lifeboats."

Arthur didn't know who the 'we' was. Try as he might he couldn't see himself as a part of the same group any more. At one time he had hoped so, he'd thought he'd found a little gang of people who had the same ways of thinking if not the same thoughts. But it wasn't. How could it be? They were so different, now.

"I'll be outside," Stone said abruptly.

Arthur watched him stride from the little apartment, watched the door slam behind that straight back. He caught Ray just looking at him, frowning slightly in concentration.

"What?" he demanded, hackles rising.

"You know, I thought you'd be different," Ray commented, suddenly dropping the languid pose, "Thought you'd be older. But you're the same old boy who couldn't see what hit him in the face."

"Ray, don't even start on me."

"Shit, Arthur! Is that all you can say? What the hell are you doing with him?"

Arthur didn't like this conversation. It was too much like the last conversation. The one before he moved out to New York. He looked to the door and wondered if he could make it before Ray threw something hard at him.

"The same old fetish," Ray continued, viciously ripping into the pale, guarded blankness of the face deliberately not looking at him, "Fucking rock stars- the original groupie. That it, Arthur? That's why you went all the way down to U-S-of-sodding-A?"

"You don't understand…" The air got really heavy in a small apartment. Ray didn't get vicious often, but when he did, he'd always been able to hurt.

"Get out. Come back when you've grown up."

And Ray just threw him out. Just like that. After all of the last night Ray just stalked to the door and flung it open, insisting silently that he leave immediately. At once. As soon as was humanly possible.

And Stone was downstairs. Probably waiting in that damned tinted limo of his. In this street! Where most people couldn't afford the shoes Stone scuffed on the scarred roads. With a black-suited chauffer and that damned blue suit that cost the earth and looked like nothing worth its price.

"You want me to go."

"Get out."

"You're fucking crazy," Arthur commented, grabbing up the last of his clothing and leaving. Fast. He wouldn't give Ray the satisfaction of having to be told to 'get out' again. He didn't wait to hear the door slammed behind him. He only stopped on the stairs to put on his shoes and he was still sliding on his jacket when he emerged into sunlight.

Real sunlight!

The kind he never remembered in England except for when he'd still been at home. At home with Claire Watts passing with friends outside his classroom window and old Grant reading Oscar Wilde.

The car was nondescript. The driver was in the car and out of sight. Stone was in the car and bundled up in a trench coat and fedora. The disguise of choice, it seemed. Stone always used that one when he went out.

He got in and the car set off immediately.

"Where're we goin'?" he asked.

Stone didn't answer right away. Instead he glanced at his watch again and leaned forward to say something to the chauffer.

Arthur was feeling that usual blackness close in. He fought it, hoping desperately that it wouldn't hit this time. He couldn't afford to do this. He was working. He had to be sensible and sane, not sunk in the blankness of whatever fit he always dropped into when the shock passed.

The car stopped.

"What the hell?"

Stone tapped his knee and pointed outside. "We're here," he said shortly.

It was their hotel.

Arthur barely registered anything except that he had to get out. He got out, walked passed the doorman without even realizing the man was there, and brushed passed a tall, African lady that seemed to think he had done it on purpose.

He just stared at her back as she clicked her tongue and bit back a shocked exclamation. He couldn't summon up the strength of mind to apologize. He was sure he was sorry about being so rude but for the life of him he couldn't marshal the words.

Tommy Stone was at the front desk, putting a call through to somewhere else.

Arthur watched him for a moment and then took out the key to his new room. He looked at it blankly for a minute and then decided that bed would be the best place for him. He needed to sleep. His head still throbbed horribly and his mouth was still as dry as a desert. And those dark sands kept sinking him in deeper and deeper until he could almost feel the rasp in his lungs from having to keep breathing.

He made for the elevators.

Stone found him sitting outside the door of Room 103, back to the door and eyes shut. The rock star took the key from him and hauled him to his feet. "Get in," was all that he said.

Arthur could take an order. He went in.

The bed was smooth and comfortable and there weren't any dirty clothes and dirty glasses littering this room. No smell of stale cologne and stale sweat. Just fresh, sweet, hotel-room air.

Arthur landed face-down on the bed and decided to stay there.

Stone watched him for a few minutes and then looked at his watch before leaving. If he left a message down at reception for the reporter, it wasn't done in anything more than professionalism.


	16. 16

Author's Note: I wasn't sure of the ages, but I've done the best I could. Let me know if I've got it wrong.

---------------------------------------------------------

Backstage wasn't so bad. Tommy Stone was in fine form, loud and jovial with a few of his crew and band before disappearing into his dressing room.

The reporter was sitting there, pale and silent, still dressed in black, his eyes lowered as he rifled through his notes.

Even as Stone watched, Arthur paused for a moment to scribble in a corner before looking up.

"Got everything?" Tommy Stone asked.

"Most," Arthur said politely, "Shannon said to wait here. Said you wanted to see me."

Tommy Stone nodded and sat down. He never drank before a performance but he was itching to inhale something. Only, he couldn't. He was out and he was trying to cut down. Damn smokes were ruining his lungs. Couldn't take the notes so well any more and that scared him. If he couldn't sing, what was he to do? He didn't like being limited by his own failures.

"This business with Brian Slade," he began, "It won't reach here, but in case something comes up, can I count on you?"

"For what?" Arthur asked, frowning a little, "I'm not gonna lie. I don't do that."

"No, no, not lie. Just be discreet."

"You mean, don't tell them the truth."

"The truth is subjective. I'm not officially Brian Slade."

"Changing your name doesn't change your past, Mr. Stone," Arthur snorted, "I thought you'd know that by now."

"By which you mean to say that I am the same man that sucked on Curt Wild's guitar strings?"

It was a cheap shot. Arthur felt himself blush even though he knew it was only Tommy Stone letting a tiny bit of Brian Slade out to play. "Yeah," he said defiantly, "The same man."

"Behind the make-up, of course."

"Yeah."

Tommy Stone leaned forward, narrowing his eyes a little. "You really think I'm the same man?" he asked again, "When this is what I've become?"

Put like that, Arthur was forced to hesitate for a second. Tommy Stone really was the other extreme of Brian Slade. "It's still you," he said doggedly.

"You're a stubborn man," Stone remarked, leaning back again, "You don't think time changes us?"

"Time changes our habits, not our nature."

Stone was quite pleasantly surprised. Arthur had never struck him as any kind of deep thinker. Not that Stone was prejudiced against reporters, as such. Reporters were, after all, living beings, even if they did make their living from ripping apart everyone else around them.

"You sound like you believe in that."

Arthur shrugged it off. "Don' matter what I believe, Mr. Stone."

"You're right. No one cares what you believe." Stone grinned off-hand and checked his make-up in the mirror. "But they will believe what you tell them. So the question is- what will you tell them?"

Arthur was caught there. He knew what he wanted to tell 'them'. He just didn't really want to deal with the consequences. He'd have to explain and Shannon had that ridiculous contract she kept waving around at him every so often. She'd be sure to find some way to sue him for breach of something. And then there'd be all the media and the mess and Al would want to know why he hadn't said something sooner. Arthur had tried to tell him, he really had. But after the first shock of knowing- after meeting Curt Wild again and seeing no recognition in his eyes- Arthur had been so very tired of it all.

"Art? You still here, man?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still here."

"What'll you tell them?"

Arthur stuffed his notebook back in his bag. "I'll think about it," he said guardedly.

Surprisingly enough, Stone only nodded and left it at that. For the next ten minutes he chatted quietly about nothing in particular. He talked about the jitters before going up on stage, listing rituals that other singers and bands went through.

"Back in the old days," he laughed, "We all used one room. Hair, make-up… everything was flying around in a little box with a door. It was chaos. Clothes stinking of sweat and cigarette smoke and glasses with lipstick marks."

"Lipstick traces, eh?"

Grey eyes narrowed a little as the smirk widened. "Yeah. You remember the old record. Funny. No one else does, you know."

Arthur fidgeted with his nails. "You could say I was a fan. Somewhat, like."

"A fan." A lot of things were making sense. "How old are you?"

"Me?"

"No, the reporter sitting behind you. How old?"

"Twenty-eight."

Stone's eyes widened comically. "Shit," he swore, "That's young. You must have been a baby."

"I left home at sixteen," Arthur excused, "And then there was the two years in London."

"A baby," Stone insisted, "A mere, fucking baby." He sat back, clearly astonished, shaking his platinum blond head with almost paternal concern. Almost. There was nothing paternal about his relationship with one Arthur Stewart of the New York Herald.

"I wasn't that young."

"A baby."

"Old enough to know I weren't going to survive at 'ome," Arthur snapped, agitated by such close scrutiny.

"Oh." A lot more things were making sense. Grey eyes flicked down to the younger man's lap and then flicked up again, bright with humour and delight and knowing. "They found out, did they? How? Let me guess- they walked in on you with another boy. A friend. Was that it?"

Too close for comfort but Arthur steeled himself to behave rationally. He could see himself in the mirror. He could judge how badly he was hiding his thoughts. And he hardened his features to show nothing. "Something like that," he admitted, "It were a long time ago."

"Things like that, they never really stay in the past," Stone commented, "They stick with you. All the time. Everything you do, I bet you see it in your head. Every man you meet, you think of how they looked at you."

"Mr. Stone, this isn't about me. Or my life."

"Your life is intruding on mine, Art. That makes it fair game."

Arthur snorted contemptuously and went back to his notes. "Not so young," he grunted, "There were little kids everywhere. I got on alright."

"Did you? How? Let me guess, you and three other little kids took a room in some crummy bedsit and did odd jobs to get money. Went to shows anywhere you could and spent too much on booze and drugs." Stone sighed and fidgeted with his hair. "All the bloody same."

"I di'n't." Arthur was glad to throw a spanner in the works, even if it was a small one. "I hooked up with the Flaming Creatures. They gave me a place to stay, I wrote pieces on them. It got me my job at the 'Erald."

Once again, he was dropping his 'aitches'.

"The Flaming Creatures… I see." Stone laughed, seeming to enjoy the irony of it all. "So that was why…" he went off again.

Arthur was confused. He hadn't said anything to warrant such humour. All he'd done was show the rock star that he wasn't like the other kids out there. He'd done things different. Apparently something about the Flaming Creatures was funny, even if Arthur couldn't see what it was.

"What?" he demanded.

But Stone wouldn't tell him. He waved him away and went back to making general conversation.

A bearded man with sweat on his brow and a bunch of wires in his hand knocked on the door and announced in a shockingly high voice that Mr. Stone had fifteen minutes to go.

Mr. Stone went even quieter. He was even more charming. He talked a little slower, his accent became a little thicker, but he kept it going steadily. He talked of his sessions in the studio, and interesting letters he got from fans. He talked of other musicians that he liked, picking out three other records that he thought were the best of the year.

The bearded man came back with a cup of coffee and the announcement that there were ten minutes left.

Somewhere in the business of accepting the cup and taking a sip, the conversation stopped altogether.

Arthur found it most disconcerting.

Stone was sipping meditatively on his coffee and gazing inwards, his eyes staring unseeing at the floor. One elegantly shod foot tapped out a staccato beat that might be something to do with a song or might be nervousness; Arthur couldn't tell.

The coffee cup rose and fell.

Shannon opened the door to the announcement that there were five minutes left and was he ready. "Any problems?" she asked hurriedly, "It's all settled. The boys are all ready. It's going to be great, Tommy, really great. The kids are just waiting for you to come out."

Stone looked up with a brief smile and handed her the cup.

Shannon took a large swallow of the cooling liquid, made a face, shook her blond head and put it down. "How do you drink this?" she remarked, more to herself than to him, "So terribly strong!"

Arthur made a discreet note of it in his book.

"Come on, Tommy. Let me have a look at you."

He stood up and pirouetted for her, arms out and turning slowing.

She tipped her head to the side and tapped a red-painted nail against her chin. "Hmmm… Mr. Stewart?" she asked.

The reporter looked up with a start. "Yeah?"

"Mr. Stone requires his privacy now," she said, "I really must ask you to leave."

"Okay." He got to his feet and grabbed up his bag, letting himself be hustled from the room. If he found it odd that Tommy Stone hadn't asked him to leave himself, he didn't say anything. Though, even if he'd wanted to, he didn't get the time! He found himself on the other side of the shut door very fast.

The bearded man brushed passed him swearing at someone called Vince, hand still clutching the bunch of wires.

Arthur shook his head and thought he'd get to his seat for the performance. It wouldn't do to be late, now, would it? Even if he did grimace at the thought.

On the other side of the shut door, Shannon confronted her one and only client- "Alright, Brian. What are you planning now?"

"Planning what, ducks?"

Oh, it was definitely Brian in there, just behind the make-up. Shannon narrowed her blue eyes. "Don't give me that," she seethed, "I can tell!"

"Stop being a twat, Shannon. I'm not planning anything."

"I've put too much work into this, Tommy. I've done too much. I don't give a shit if you want to quit tomorrow. That's fine." She was really desperate, and what was more she could hear it in her voice, could feel it in the muscles of her face. "Fine. But just for tonight, Tommy, please? Behave? Just go through it like we planned and tomorrow you get a long break. I'll cancel everything for three months. Take a vacation. Take a cruise. Take a fucking plane to Timbuktu, I don't give a damn! Just finish the show. Please!"

He wouldn't listen, twitching away from her with a frown on his face. Sinking down before the mirror and looking at the little watch sitting there.

"Tommy, are you listening?"

"I'm listening." He dropped the unfortunate watch to the tabletop with a smack. "I'll do the bloody show. But that's it! Tomorrow I quit!"

"Okay. Tomorrow. Tomorrow you can quit."

Shannon crossed her fingers. Tomorrows were tricky things. So far, Stone had thrown a tantrum before every major show in the last year and he'd always come back the next day. A little restless and a little snappish, but he'd come back. Shannon wasn't stupid- one day he'd do it for real. And she'd be out of a job. She didn't relish the thought but it would happen. She just had to put it off for as long as she could.

"A minute," he commented, "One fucking minute. Two hours after that. Press party junket after. And then home."

Home was always a hotel. The place he slept. Home used to be Belfast but not since he'd left at seventeen.

'_Old enough to know I weren't goin' to survive at 'ome.'_

Brian Slade had known too. He'd stuck around, of course, longer than he should have. Until the little boy had come back, begging, crawling, whimpering across the floor. And his gang hadn't been too happy about finding out some scrubby schoolboy had a crush on their Brian. Maureen hadn't either.

Hadn't they had a night of it, though? Brian never could remember. Maureen… had he or hadn't he? So many and even the first one was getting to be a haze.

"Tommy?"

He looked at Shannon's reflection in the mirror, jerking his brain away from the memories. He felt stupid even thinking of them. As if he missed Belfast! Ha! What the bloody hell had it ever given him?

"It's time."

She said it hesitantly, like she always did. And he always saw the shy little girl whenever she said it. She used to do it for him 'back in the old days' too. She'd stick around because she just melted into corners, she was so eager to help him.

He swept passed her with a grin. A typical, bluff, hearty, American grin because he knew how worried she got, and then he was out of the room and he could hear the screaming crowds as he got closer.

He'd always loved that sound. It got addictive after a while. To know he'd made it!

He ran out and the screaming just got louder.


	17. 17

Arthur was not expecting to enjoy any part of the show. For the most part he didn't. But somewhere along the line, he found that the music really was infectious. It bounced and buzzed and wound itself around his brain until he could feel his pulse hammer in time to the synthetic beat.

He didn't like it. But he was resigned to putting up with a lot of things he didn't like.

Two other reporters sat close to him and he certainly didn't like them. They talked about football in bored voices and commented that rock stars were all the same- packaged products.

"This one's better'n most," one of them bawled, making no attempt to keep his voice down in spite of the death glares he was getting from the others around him, "Good beat, good style. I like him."

His companion nodded and Arthur wished strongly he could tell both of them to shut up.

He saw a girl pressed against the railing, her lips parted and her eyes shining. On impulse he took a photo of her. After all, if he wanted to give the whole story, he might as well include a picture of the effect that Tommy Stone had on the general public.

The kids really did love him. They danced and jumped and screamed. Tommy Stone did everything to get them to jump higher, scream louder. The man himself was… Arthur didn't like to say he approved. He didn't, not really. But Tommy Stone was a good performer.

A good actor might have been the better noun. Arthur could see the act because he knew. Neither Tommy Stone nor Maxwell Demon was real. Neither was Brian Slade. Somewhere in that confusing labyrinth of masks, the naked truth resided. Arthur didn't want to know what the truth was.

"Hey, you got a light?"

The American voice so close to his ear made him start. "What?"

"A light. You got one?" The reporter showed him the unlit cigarette in explanation.

Arthur shook his head and looked down at the other girl's press badge in reflex. "Daily News," he read, "Sorry, no."

"Shit," she swore, diving back into her bag, "I could really use a cigarette right now and just my luck, I forgot my lighter. Damn!" She threw the cigarette back into her bag and frowned down at the receptacle for two seconds.

"Maybe one of these other guys," Arthur suggested, looking around them.

"Forget it." She gave him a harried smile and shrugged bony shoulders. "I'm just nervous, I guess."

He nodded and concentrated on the show. For the next three songs, he managed to forget about her and go back to his depressed mental ruminations. That guitarist up there took centre stage and the star vanished for a little while into the dark, sweating and panting and probably hoarse from taking those notes so loudly.

Arthur looked out over the crowd and counted quite a few young boys in those dapper suits and platinum blond hair.

"Shit!"

Arthur looked around and the girl reporter was scrambling under her seat, frantically collecting up all the bits and bobs that had spilled from her bag. He bent down and picked up a lipstick that had rolled under his seat. "This yours?"

"Oh, thanks. It just… fell. I don't know how it happened." She laughed nervously and came back out, stuffing a notebook into her hapless bag and zipping it up firmly. "Thanks."

"No problem."

He looked at her and she held out her hand. "Stacy Keller," she introduced, leaning close to yell in his ear, "Daily News."

"Arthur Stuart," he said, "New York Herald."

"No kidding!" Her green eyes went huge and for a second her mouth opened and closed as if there was too much she wanted to say and not even breath for her to say it.

Arthur wasn't sure he liked this sudden interest in himself. "You work for an English paper?"

"My first assignment," she said, "This is strange. Er, could I talk to you? Somewhere else? Oh! You're watching. Fine. Er, later. It's okay. Don't worry."

Arthur was really curious now. "Is something wrong?"

"No, I'm being an idiot," she said, "It's okay. Forget I said anything."

He nodded and turned back to the show. Tommy Stone was back on stage, joking with the audience as he strode up and down. The blue suit jacket was shrugged off and tossed negligently into the wings, the thin black tie loosened and the shirt neck opened up.

Arthur remembered seeing that slender neck flush just that shade once before. It wasn't a memory he wanted to cultivate.

He tapped Stacy on the arm and pointed away from the stage. "Want some coffee?" he mouthed.

"Coffee? Aren't you watching?"

He looked back up at Stone and then shook his head at her. She actually seemed excited by that, nodding eagerly. "This way."

Arthur followed her out.

They showed their passes to security and got out of the entertainment venue, setting their watches to get back in time.

"So why all the interest?" Arthur asked bluntly, "Have we met before?"

"Oh, no. I was thinking of something, that's all."

He nodded and didn't speak. He didn't need to. Nervous people talked on their own initiative if they felt compelled to. Arthur had practised at creating compelling silences. It was good for his job.

"A friend of mine told me about an incident with Tommy Stone in New York. She sent me some clippings when I told her about this article."

"What article?" Arthur asked tensely. He knew, but he was hoping. Hoping… hoping…

"You know, about Tommy Stone and Brian Slade." She lowered her voice and looked around. "I found out a few things. I'm pretty sure I can tie them together."

Arthur felt his chest tighten.

She looked at him and seemed to take his silence as an approving sign. "I guess you've been doing your homework too, right? You're probably down here looking for final proof."

Arthur took a deep breath. "Not really," he said, "I just came here to interview Stone."

"Excuse me? That's impossible. He wouldn't dare!"

"My paper offered an interview. Mr. Stone was agreeable," Arthur evaded, "Nothing weird about it."

She scratched her head and frowned again. "He's got balls," she commented, "Doing this. With you, no less."

Arthur saw it from her point of view and it was quite admirably humorous. "I'm just working to pay the rent," he excused. Keep her guessing, keep her happy- she'd talk. And Arthur wanted to know how much she knew. If only because it was his secret and he didn't like it being bantered around the place like another British Rag rumour.

"I'll bet," she joked, "You saw right through him, didn't you? How'd you find out anyway?"

"Depends what you're asking for," Arthur evaded.

"That he was a fag," she said.

Loud, too loud. The people in the shop looked up automatically and then looked away again. Arthur shushed her and pointed to the counter. "Let's get the coffee and talk outside, eh?"

"Right. Sorry. Americans," she rambled, "We're loud. Everyone knows that. And embarrassing. Everyone knows that too. Fuck!"

She dropped her bag and Arthur scooped it up as a matter of course. Because he was raised right. Even if he was torn between gagging her with the bag and taking the unfortunate thing away before she mistreated it any more. His own bag was resting like a lead weight on his shoulder, considering the topic of conversation, but he ignored it.

They gave their orders while she told him that she's been a junior reporter for so long she'd jumped at the chance for a promotion even when it was in another country and on another continent.

"This is my first big break as an investigative reporter," she said, "I told my editor and he didn't want to do it. But I showed him the clippings from New York and he let me run with it."

Arthur took her back outside as soon as he could, ostensibly because he didn't want to miss the brief few minutes after the show when Tommy Stone met the press.

"So you're going to ask him right there?" he questioned.

"You did. It worked in New York. He'll be rattled and maybe he'll say something. It'll be better if he doesn't, you know. Walking away; a girl can print so much more if he just walks away. Too scared to come out."

"What proof d'you have?" he asked.

She burned her tongue and cursed again, raising her fingers to her lips in a grimace of pain. But when she spoke, it was quite openly. "No real proof. Just stuff that doesn't fit. Like that big house he has, up in Los Angeles? Three people go there- Mr. Stone, his manager and his housekeeper. No one else."

Arthur couldn't see the connection. So he sipped on his coffee and kept quiet.

"You can't see it? Okay, if you were a once-famous rock star who didn't like appearing in public, and you were the lover of another famous rock star who didn't want the public to know he was gay, where would you go?"

"Los Angeles?" Arthur was being deliberately obtuse. But he was trying to wriggle more information out of her. Sometimes, the most obvious things were not what they seemed.

"No, silly. A house that only three people are allowed in. It's perfect! I managed to get in touch with a contractor who worked on the house a little just before Stone moved in." She leaned closer. "He said he got the feeling it wasn't just Tommy Stone that was going to live there. He said he had to get a door fitted between two bedrooms, like those old-fashioned kind of husband and wife deals. Who else can it be, right, except a lover?"

Arthur nodded as he absorbed this. Knowing what he knew, he doubted that Tommy Stone was capable of sleeping with Brian Slade. It added a whole new meaning to the term 'fucked up'. But it looked as though Tommy Stone really had had a lover at the time.

Or was it something non-sexual?

After all, if Stone wanted a lover, they could share a room. That level of privacy and he could probably walk naked through his mansion without anyone knowing. Why be coy about it? Stone wasn't a coy person.

Arthur had seen that first hand.

"And then there's the characters," Stacy continued, throwing the coffee away, "Brian Slade was as queer as they came. Everyone knew he liked blond rockers after that little affair with what's his name- the American guy he brought down here?"

"Curt Wild?" Arthur murmured.

"Him," she nodded, "Man, he sucked his guitar strings on stage like some rabid nymphomaniac. There's no doubt about him. And there's something about Tommy Stone that I can't get. A gut feeling. Like he's all an act. And no one knows where Stone came from, either. All that bullshit about clubs in Europe and the mean streets of Boston is unbelievable. No one remembers him there. So maybe he was in London. And he met the infamous Brian Slade. And maybe things started then."

Arthur marvelled at the fable. The woman was wrong, no doubt about that, but she wove a pretty convincing set of lies. It reminded him of those puzzles that kids did- joining the dots according to numbers. Only, Stacy Keller had managed to join the dots and find a cat where the dots were clearly outlining a dog.

"So no evidence," he sighed, settling the strap of his bag on his shoulder, "You talked to any of Brian Slade's old friends?"

"No," she groaned, "My editor won't let me have the budget."

"What about the people here?" Arthur asked, "There must be someone."

"Couldn't find them," she said, "Changed numbers, names, addresses… all of it. A few people, yeah, but none of the guys who'd know."

Arthur thought about it some more. And then took her shoulder and stopped walking as something occurred to him. "I just thought of something," he said, "What'll Stone do if you mouth off a question like that?"

"I'm hoping he runs away," she laughed.

"Yeah, but I've already done that," Arthur reminded her, "That Shannon's no idiot. She'll have an answer all set. But," he went on, "But what if you don't say anything now?"

"What d'you mean? I won't get a reaction if I don't do it now."

"Yeah. But what about if you got the story first? Who knows, you might get a deal out of it."

Arthur was surprised this was working. Stacy Keller was so desperate she just took an idea and ran anywhere. Al would foam at the mouth if any of his reporters worked like that. Besides, he'd thought she'd grow cynical after all the shit she must have seen in the States.

But no. Her eyes were shining and she was biting on her lower lip and those skinny shoulders were tensed in a moment of contained exhilaration.

"You're right," she breathed, "I can do that. I'll have the whole thing. Better copy, better quotes."

"Word of advise," Arthur pushed just a bit more, "Try Jack Fairy."

Jack Fairy. He almost felt sorry for Stacy. The woman would get more than she'd ever bargained for. Fairy would suck her in somehow, and the club would turn her mind. She'd be so busy with glamours and unravelling the cheap fabric of masks and masquerades she wouldn't have the time to do anything before Stone left England.

There was just another week to go. Arthur had another week to gather his notes for the interview and Stone had another week to pay for Arthur's silence.

"It's late," he said, "The show'll end soon."

She followed him like an eager little puppy.


	18. 18

"May I?" Arthur asked abruptly, sticking his head in at the limousine door.

Shannon compressed her red lips but Stone only nodded. The rock star was surprised, but he was tired and it failed to rouse more than a passing glance of enquiry from those grey eyes.

Arthur hopped in and the door slammed shut behind him. Frighteningly quick. He blamed the driver for that. Bloody lunatic hated his job, and hated his employers to boot. "Where're we going?" he opened.

"The hotel," Shannon informed him, "Mr. Stone is tired."

"Yeah. Congratulations, Mr. Stone. The show was a success," Arthur said politely.

Stone snorted and didn't bother answering that.

"No, no. It was nice." He couldn't think of a single thing to say that could reinforce his point. Philosophically he dropped the subject and moved on to more serious topics- "Stacy Keller."

Stone didn't even look around from the window he was staring out of.

Shannon tapped her knee and squinted a little. "I've heard the name," she said slowly, "Who is she?"

"Reporter with the Daily News," Arthur supplied, "She's, er, doing a piece on Tommy Stone's affair with bisexual pop star Brian Slade."

Shannon was a very businesslike woman. Her first impulse was to feel annoyed and cheated and worried. She controlled herself, only to pick up on what it was that Arthur Stewart had really said. Blue eyes widening, she could only repeat it in awe- "Tommy Stone's affair with Brian Slade?"

She repeated it a few times more.

Arthur grinned back at her and for once though the woman looked human when she was laughing.

"Oh God," she sighed.

"Yeah, that's what I said," Arthur agreed.

"This amuses you two?" Stone put in quietly from his side of his limousine.

Shannon sobered up instantly. Almost guiltily. She waved a hand as if to clear the humour completely from the air, afraid she would be unable to resist it again. "It is a little funny," she excused, "She thinks of them as two different people."

"Digging into the story will get her the truth, Shannon. Arthur did it." Tommy Stone leaned back in his seat, head back and eyes closed, arms to his side and completely relaxed. "What happens then?"

"True," Shannon agreed, "Mr. Stewart, how much did she tell you?"

"Not much." Arthur thought Stone was acting peculiar. The rock star had given a sell-out performance, been loved and adulated by hundred of young kids, and was traveling in a limousine to a good night's sleep in a luxury hotel. Tommy Stone could do no wrong. The man should see the humour in Tommy Stone and Brian Slade having an affair.

He told them the little that he knew and Shannon noted it all. Arthur didn't like her, but she really was efficient. Not creative, perhaps, but efficient. And she kept Stone hidden from the rest of the world, which was really what Brian wanted from her.

At the hotel, Arthur went alone to his hotel room, worried at the mixture of concern and triumph.

Triumph was easy. Arthur was quite pleased with his plan to keep Keller running around for a little while. Besides which, it was his story, and if he didn't break it, no one could. Arthur didn't want to break it. Curt Wild's reaction said it all.

_'So what?'_ The most genuine reaction he could expect from people was a pain-filled desire to never know. The rest would circle like scavengers around Tommy Stone, pecking and pecking until he either hid again or broke in a storm of anger.

It wouldn't just be Tommy Stone, would it? The club would be discovered. Jack Fairy would be hounded. Arthur was not very worried about Jack Fairy; Jack Fairy exuded a warning to steer clear. Jack Fairy was poisonous fruit. No one would go near him unless they were hardened or gullible.

They'd go for the Flaming Creatures, though. Want to know everything about everything. It would probably bring the band back, but it wouldn't be good, would it? People would parade them around like circus animals.

Arthur sat on his bed and stared at the wall. He couldn't conspire to keep a story hidden forever. His boss would kill him if they didn't get the scoop.

And what about Stone? How long would this last? The lies, the cover-ups, the make-up… all of this had to be hard. Brian Slade hadn't seemed a disciplined person. Booze, drugs and sex was one thing; excess and lots of it was another. Slade had cheerfully bathed in excess.

Arthur wasn't stupid. What if Stone decided to go public? Arthur needed to protect himself. He picked up the phone and asked the front desk to connect him to Stone's room. The call went through but no one answered. He tried again a few moments later, planning the conversation in his head so he'd know what to say.

On the third ring, Stone picked up. "What?"

"Sorry to bother you, but we have to talk about something," Arthur said.

"I'm not in the fucking mood to talk, Arthur."

"Not tonight," Arthur agreed, "Morning, then? Breakfast."

"I doubt I'll make it."

"It's important," Arthur insisted, "When's good for you?"

"Arthur, I might as well tell you the truth," Brian Slade suddenly said cheerfully, "I'm about to kill myself. That, my friend, means I can't meet you tomorrow because I'll be a corpse. Slowly turning blue. And they can all go to hell in a fucking flame jet."

"What?"

"Goodbye, Arthur. You tasted sweet. Wear red next time, love."

The phone didn't go off but there was an almighty crash on the other end and Arthur could hear Stone cursing from very far away.

Shannon! That was who he needed to call- Shannon. She'd know how to deal with this. She'd probably seen this before. Stone wouldn't really kill himself…

Arthur saw the gunman in the dark again and almost bit his tongue dragging his mind back to the present. Chucking the phone away, he jumped for the door and snatched up his jacket because he always took his jacket when he went out and he didn't have the time to reason that he was only going from one hotel room to the other. He didn't need his jacket but it was a familiar action and he needed a lot of familiar things in this bloody travesty of trying to get a credible story.

"Stone," he called, knocking loudly at the door, "Stone! Open the door!"

A door opened but it wasn't the one he was attempting to dent with his knuckles. It was the one opposite. And it was opened by an older lady in a dressing gown with a scowl on her surgically touched up face.

"Must you have to do that," she said, "Some of us are trying to sleep. Couldn't this wait for morning?"

"Sorry, ma'am, but this is an emergency."

Arthur had had a similar situation when a somewhat-girlfriend in New York locked herself into someone else's apartment hallucinating from a bad hit. Back then, the lady across the hall had let him into her house and let him call an ambulance while she tried to persuade Karen to open the door for him. In this case, the older lady only clicked her tongue and went back into her room and slammed her door shut.

A French couple came out of the elevator while he tried to get Stone to open the door and asked if he had forgotten his room key. The girl appeared to be a little drunk, for she kept giggling and inviting him back to their room to sleep on the couch. Her companion humoured her and suggested that Arthur try the front desk for a room key.

Arthur smiled thinly and thanked them for their help, vaguely motioning them to go on their way so he could get on with his task.

"Look," he sighed, leaning his forehead against the door, "Please. Just open the damned door. Come on. You can't die on me before I've finished talking to you. Shannon won't deal with me, you know that. Let me say what I have to say and I won't stop you. Okay? Just open the door."

The door opened. Brian was standing there, rumpled and sweating and tiredly ironic. "The door was always open," he said, "You only had to turn the handle."

Arthur kicked himself for not having thought of that. "Oh. Can I come in?"

"You're here, aren't you?" Brian left him there with that cryptic remark, stalking back to the bar and pouring himself a drink.

Not the first one by the look of things.

Arthur debated leaving. Brian didn't look any more suicidal than normal. Drinking himself to death, maybe, but no immediate danger.

Brian Slade picked up a knife and showed it to his guest. "Was this what you were worried about?" he laughed.

Arthur went in and shut the door. "You going to use it?"

"Already thought of it," Brian Slade announced gravely, "But no. I'm too much of a coward. Can't stand the thought of finishing." He tossed the knife negligently to the carpet and walked over it to sit down in the couch, spilling whiskey down his shirtfront.

Arthur picked up the knife for good measure and stuck it in a drawer so it wouldn't unnerve him by lying there so calmly.

"It's too final," Brian droned, staring at his glass as if he were talking to it. He drank the last of the dregs and tossed it away. He stared appraisingly at Arthur. "There's too much to do, you know? So many things to do."

Whatever he seemed to be looking for in Arthur's face, the reporter couldn't tell if he'd found it or not. Stone just shrugged and looked away. "You can go. I don't need a suicide watch."

"We still have my idea to discuss," Arthur reminded him. No reason not to stir him up a bit, make him sit up and think clearly.

"Not now, Arthur. I need a drink."

"You've had enough. Besides, this is business. You don' want to be drunk for business, do you?"

"Does it matter?" Stone said bitterly, "Business means screwing me over. Ta, but I'd rather not."

"I'm not here to screw you over. I were thinking about Keller. It's my story. I don' want someone else getting the glory of unmasking Stone."

"Really." Those grey eyes were icy.

"Yeah. That's my call. I don' do it 'cause I don't want to. That's my call. But if anyone gets to do it, I want it to be me."

"Well, lovely as all this sounds, I can't guarantee that you'll be the one to get the scoop, Art. Lots of people want to know about Tommy Stone's mysterious past. Shannon always told me it would happen one day. I told her to fix it."

"She can't give you a past."

"That's what she said, too."

"What about if you decide to go public with who you are," Arthur suggested.

Stone shook his head and didn't bother answering.

"Might work," Arthur tempted, "Tommy Stone's a hit."

"And Brian Slade is a disgrace," Stone snapped, "No one wants to know."

"What if you decide to," Arthur persisted, "It's still my story. Let my paper run it."

"The New York Herald? It's not really a confession paper, is it?"

"News like this, we'll be anything at all." Arthur meant it as a joke but he was serious too. The darling of the music industry tearing off his mask would be big. And they would have an exclusive.

Stone dredged up enough mental energy to turn it over in his head. Shannon would fuss. "I'll think about it," he told him.

Arthur nodded. It was better than nothing. And the rock star was sitting a little straighter, his eyes no longer so fogged. He was still slumped dejectedly in the couch, however, one hand on the couch between his knees, the other curled into the dyed platinum hair. Not a scene meant for a general audience.

"Want me to go?"

Stone seemed to start from some daze, blinking grey eyes with slight lines at the corners. Crows feet. Signs of old age and too much facial movement. It happened to rockers; they opened their mouths wide belting out loud songs. Slade remembered being twenty-four and ascending the stairs to the throne. Almost. He'd almost done everything right. Hatred, love, disgust, interest- people noticed Brian Slade. Somehow, he gave them all something- someone to hate, someone to love, someone who disgusted them or interested them.

"Stone?"

Stone was old. Slade was young. Young and beautiful. Even when people hated him it was because he was beautiful and quicksilver and he burned the world he lived in. Stone didn't burn anything. He wasn't any less of a creative triumph, just a different type. He didn't change the world, he moved with it.

"Stone?"

"Shut up."

Arthur obediently shut up. Brian was just looking at him with those grey eyes, his soft mouth partially open as he breathed quietly. And then the long legs moved and Brian stood up and came over to him, artist's hand extended to cup his chin. Drawing him before he could even protest into a kiss that burned and ripped and tore a respond from him before he could blink.

Standing there and kissing Brian Slade was not supposed to be familiar, but it sure felt like it. It was awkward, yes, and it was wet and perhaps Arthur shouldn't have liked the fact that Slade inadvertently bit his tongue because Arthur stood on his foot as they stumbled to the bedroom, but so much in the world was strange and really, how much stranger could this get.

"Closer," Brian demanded.

Arthur wasn't precisely unhappy to oblige. But the word made him reconsider. It felt good but it obviously wasn't good or he wouldn't be feeling so furtive about it.

"Your mum won't walk in on us," Brian muttered, trying to get him to come back.

"What?"

"Stop thinking. Don't think. The mind twists and lies. Just feel me."

Arthur groaned and stared up at the ceiling. Clothing was vanishing far too fast and not fast enough and God, if Brian didn't stop doing that he wouldn't be able to stop. But God, just a second more. Just because.

Ray was right- he was a groupie.

Once his trousers were down and his legs were up, it didn't seem to matter any more.


	19. 19

Author's Note: Sorry for the wait. I do have a busy schedule right now and I have to warn you that it won't lighten any time soon. Forgive the infrequent updates, but I promise that I will go on to the end. I won't abandon this fiction.

------------------------------------------------------

"This isn't supposed to happen," Arthur murmured, silent and still.

The man lying next to him stirred slightly and didn't answer.

"I should go," Arthur said.

For two seconds, nothing happened. And then Brian turned on his side and propped himself up on his elbow. "You're still here."

Arthur sat up too, brushing his hair off his face. "One thing," he said urgently, "This didn't happen. I didn't come here and we didn't…"

"Have sex?"

"No. We didn't have sex."

"If you want," Brian shrugged.

Arthur got off the bed and pulled his underwear on, feeling his chest constrict until he managed his trousers and shirt too. He might almost have made it through the door if a very naked rock star wasn't standing in the way, a sheet wrapped around his narrow hips like some kind of afterthought.

For the second time in one day, Arthur looked at him and said the first thing that came to mind- "Lipstick traces."

Brian raised an eyebrow and looked down at himself. "If you like," he agreed, "I was thinking of something far more practical."

"You're in my way."

"Good. Then you can take a seat and listen to me."

Arthur narrowed his eyes but Brian really did seem to mean it. He didn't intend to sit in a bedroom, however. That was just asking for trouble. He pushed passed the rock star and fell into a chair.

Brian hitched his sheet a little higher and rolled his eyes as if amused at himself. He proceeded to shuffle to another chair and he sat down just a primly, for all the world as if he were wearing a suit.

"What guarantee do I have," he asked, "That you won't tell."

"I won't tell," Arthur pointed out, "What will I tell? I don't have any proof."

"You can find proof," Brian said, smiling tightly, "That woman- what was her name- the reporter. She seems to have a handle on things."

After all of the mess and bother of the last few months, all the manipulative little games… Arthur couldn't understand why Slade had to wait for the end to have this conversation. They could have sat down at the start, talked things over. Arthur would have given his word and signed a reasonable enough contract. Stone could have gone on his little tour without the hassle of anyone else tagging along. And none of this would have happened!

"She has a theory," Arthur corrected, "Not the same thing."

"So she won't find out."

"No, she could find out. But it'll take her a while. You didn't leave a lot of loose threads."

"Shannon," Brian said proudly. One slender foot emerged from under the sheet and began to kick distractedly. "That's all her work. I told her what I wanted, she got it done."

Arthur watched the foot rise and fall. "Sounds great."

"She doesn't like you," Brian commented, clearly amused by the idea, "She has this theory, this idea, that you're goin' to ruin me. Since that would ruin her, she's not too happy."

"You think I'll ruin you?"

"I can ruin myself," Brian quipped, "I don't need anyone's help."

Arthur saw the gun go off again and he fervently agreed with Brian Slade on that one. The rock star could ruin everything, if he wanted to. Destroy hopes and dreams and bright visions of the future.

The rock star stared vacantly around at the mess of his hotel suite, quite interested in the havoc he'd managed to wreak without realizing it. He lifted his arm and looked down. The red marks were there, but only scratches this time. He guessed he hadn't waited to find anything sharper than his own nails.

Arthur caught sight of the red and sighed. "You cut yourself last night, Stone?"

Grey eyes flashed up. "I think we can use first names, now, Art."

Arthur swallowed but tried not to show it. "Fine. Tommy."

"I'm retiring Tommy Stone, Art." Brian looked down again and traced one line redder and longer than the rest. Welts, most of them, but this was the worst of the scratches.

"Again."

The wealth of frozen memories almost smacked Brian across the face they were so obvious. Arthur was not very good at hiding his emotions, but Brian found himself still uncertain and untrusting. Trying to see beyond, even if his logic told him that there was no beyond. Arthur wasn't hard to understand. But Brian was still, somehow, finding there was a lot to learn.

"No shooting this time," he remarked, "Just a simple retirement notice and disappearance trick. I can go somewhere quiet for a rest."

Arthur nodded coolly. "Then what?"

"Pardon?"

"Then, when you get bored with your own head, what're you gonna do? Come back as someone else?"

"I could. Why?"

"Just want to know."

"You make it sound sordid," Brian told him, "Like I'm screwing someone over for this."

"What about all your fans?" Arthur growled, "All those kids that believe in you." The little boy outside the television store, the one with his nose pressed up to the glass. "You're doing to them what you did to us."

"There's no 'us' and 'them'," Brian snapped, "And I don't owe them anything."

"So you're saying we don't count?"

"I'm saying that I play music, write a few songs, sing a few verses. If they like it, they buy the record. If they don't, tough!" Brian had been aware of this symbiotic relationship forever. And he was aware of the paradox. That didn't mean he had to like it. "I'm not cutting corners just for a handful of kids I don't know."

"A handful?" Arthur exclaimed, fascinated by the sheer self-absorption, "It's a few fucking millions, mate. Those kids pay for your mansions and your cars. Without them, you're nothing."

"I know." Brian nodded quite seriously and didn't seem to find the statement very upsetting in one way or another. He just looked down and watched his foot bob. He wondered if his arches were falling in. They got sore faster. And they looked lower.

Arthur shook his dark head and raised a hand to settle his collar, only to find that he hadn't exactly done up the top buttons of his shirt very well. A few had slipped open again and those grey eyes were moving from the bobbing foot to his hand to the bared 'v' of his chest.

Arthur perversely left the buttons open.

Who the hell cared, anyway? So many years since he'd been… well, since he'd done that, and really, after Brian had had his cock all the way up his arse, could the glimpse of his chest really be so shocking.

"You're strangely attractive," Brian commented, pulling the words out of nowhere.

Arthur thought casually of the movies he used to watch when he was a kid. He'd have to say something coquettish or outraged or something if they were in a movie. Something snappy. Something that let Brian know he wouldn't be just another girl in a long line.

Except Arthur wasn't a girl. He didn't feel like a girl. Being on the receiving end with another man never made him feel a girl. He felt like a guy who was getting sex. Nothing girly about it whatsoever.

"I can't see you as one of the kids who used to come to my shows. I find it hard to imagine you even believed in it like you say."

Arthur smiled. "Oh, I believed. I left home for it; got thrown out."

"I thought that was your friend, your first love."

The veiled mockery normally had the effect of raising Arthur's hackles. This time, they only made him smile wider. "No. My Dad walked into the room to find me jerking off to your picture."

Brian was certainly surprised. "My picture?"

"Well, you and Curt." Arthur watched comprehension dawn. "You know the one."

"I know the one," Brian admitted. He sat back, quite still, concentrating on adjusting this new piece of information against everything else he knew about the other man. It made a lot more sense. Arthur hadn't been experimenting, he'd been fantasizing. Somehow, Brian understood the dynamics- experimentation was stupid and immoral, but masturbation was completely not to be borne. And to a picture of two men and a guitar! No middle class father would willingly tolerate that.

"An' you?" Arthur taunted, "What made you leave?"

"A little boy I took upstairs and fucked neatly in his own bed," Brian smirked.

Arthur laughed and Brian knew he wouldn't take it seriously. He'd already given so many different answers to the same questions- London called to the artist in him; he followed his first love down to London; he went to stay with family and just never left.

"I sucked the school uniform right out of him," Brian embellished, "He wasn't discreet."

Arthur went hot and cold at that. The fey quip about the 'little boy' didn't exactly make his heart pick up but the image of those lips sucking hard enough to break a school boy's soul hit too close to home.

Brian stifled a grin. He was rusty at this, but by God, Arthur made him think the seventies had never ended.

And then Arthur said, "What's the time?"

And just like that, they were back in the present. Brian blinked and found his toes were cold. He pulled his foot up under him to warm them up and tried to remember where his watch had ended up. And his cigarettes.

He couldn't see a clock anywhere.

Arthur got up and disappeared into the bedroom for a moment, returning with a frown on his face. "It's two in the morning," he scowled, "I hate stayin' up late."

It was getting more and more surreal by the minute. "You do?" Brian asked.

"Makes it harder to wake up," Arthur sighed, scratching his chin, "I can't go in late to work. My boss would have a kitten."

The very American term turned the world upside down.

Brian looked up meditatively at the ceiling but it still looked the same. Maybe it was just perceptions.

"You don't look good," Arthur said suddenly, bending down to look him in the face, "Hey! Brian?"

Oh. Brian. And he hadn't even needed to ask this time. "What?"

"You look sick," Arthur told him.

"I'm flattered," Brian muttered, lifting a hand to his unexpectedly light head. There was a clock ticking somewhere. The sound was going to burst his eardrums and shatter his skull, he just knew it. Maybe there was a song in that.

'_tumbling down… tumbling down…' _

That damned song! Since when had he had that stuck in his head? It felt like forever, but he hadn't noticed it before. And if Arthur didn't switch off the light his eyes were going to melt and really, Brian would prefer it if they didn't. He said so, somehow, and the light was switched off. Helpful, Brian's mind said, the first helpful reporter he'd ever met. The others had all been sharks.

"God, my head," he mumbled, raising a hand fearfully in case said appendage fell off.

"You need a doctor," Arthur grunted, heaving him out of the chair and dragging one limp arm around his shoulders. "Should I get Shannon?"

"No. I'm fine. Let go, I'm not a sodding patient."

Arthur obligingly let go.

Brian almost fell face flat on the floor.

Arthur obligingly caught him and dragged him to bed. "Lie down," he ordered.

Then he proceeded to untangle the sheet. Brian didn't help him; more to the point, he seemed inclined to think it all a game.

"You should ask first," Brian teased, "Whisper sweet nothings."

"I'm not trying to fucking sleep with you, you prick," Arthur snarled, finally losing his patience, "Just get the sheet off!"

The anger might have helped because Brian didn't fight it any more. Arthur got the sheet off and pulled the blankets up and somehow or other felt like a nurse for making sure Brian had enough pillows and wouldn't choke on his own bile if he felt nauseous in the night.

"Art?"

Arthur paused before rolling the sheet into a corner. "Yeah."

"It's cold."

Arthur was going to go for the sheet again.

Brian snorted contemptuously and yanked him down. "Stop that," he commanded, "Hold still. I'll be asleep in a minute."

Arthur fell asleep first.

Brian stared at the ceiling and turned over, thankful for his own space. He liked the feel of another person in his bed. Just not clinging to him. Arthur was a solid presence, too. Brian could feel a crazy idea forming.


	20. 20

"Headache?"

"Stop yelling, there's a love," Brian grunted, falling into a chair with easy grace.

Shannon looked at him over her cup of coffee and noted the wan pallor and the dark glasses. "You were drinking again," she guessed, putting her cup down.

Brian didn't react. He only reached out blindly until she leaned over and nudged his cup further towards his questing fingers.

Coffee was the elixir of life to Brian Slade. It hadn't changed with Tommy Stone.

So Shannon held her tongue and kept her thoughts on the subject to herself while her client tried to put himself back to rights. She nibbled her toast and drank her coffee, and occupied herself with planning for the rest of the two weeks that they were in England.

"Reviews?" Stone asked.

"Good, mostly," Shannon allowed, jerking her head to the newspapers and magazines she'd dumped on the couch, "A few thought you weren't invested in the show."

"That obvious, eh?"

She laughed softly at that rueful sigh and shook her blond head. "You were good, Tommy. Great. The show was great."

"Yeah, the band nailed it last night."

"Tommy, I said you were great. Most of those kids wouldn't have cared if you had Brian May or Eric Clapton in that band. You sang your heart out." She laughed again, holding out a hand as though to offer him a memory. "Did you hear them when you did 'Crackerjack'? I thought they would storm the stage."

He grinned too, though it was reluctant at best, and finally took off his dark glasses. Behind them his eyes were swollen, bruised with stress, and shot with thin red capillaries that showed up against the dirty whites.

He really did look a mess.

Shannon took pity on him and poured him another cup of coffee, wishing the tours weren't always so hard on him.

As if he were reading her thoughts, Brian rubbed his already sore eyes and groaned. "I can't do this any more."

"It'll get easier."

"It's the touring," he continued, as though she hadn't spoken at all, "I can't stand the touring."

She bit her lip and sympathized in silence, resting her hands in her trousered lap, crossing them neatly at the wrists just as she crossed her legs neatly at the ankles and stowed them beneath her chair. She'd had etiquette lessons in Los Angeles; she'd wanted to present the right image.

Brian stirred his coffee absently, staring into the milky concoction. "It's too fucking tough."

"You've done it before."

"Yeah. I don't want to do that again, Shannon. Taking a bullet to get out ruined things the last time."

"You don't have to take a bullet this time," she offered, leaning forward and putting her arms on the table so she could rest across them. Use them as leverage to push closer.

People always did that with Brian Slade. They wanted to get closer because they just knew that if they didn't, they'd miss something spectacular, something important. Shannon didn't do it as much any more because years with the man turned her blind to most of his charms. But she found he still had it, when it really mattered- that vulnerability.

"Really?" He smiled a thin, tiny smile at her that stretched his cheek muscles and didn't reach his eyes.

"Sure," she declared robustly, "You can come clean about everything. No one will care now. It was ten years ago. We can make a big deal out of it. Do the interviews, check into rehab, release a lot of the old material. Find new markets!"

"You think these kids want the old stuff?" Brian asked.

"I think these kids will get a hell of a shock," Shannon laughed, "It's not up to them. They don't own you."

"Try telling the hellhounds that."

"Forget about the reporters. We give them our story and let them run with it."

"Nice try, love. It won't work." He stretched his arms up above his head and listened with sadistic pleasure as something clicked into place. "Shannon, could you…?"

"I'll set a massage up for this afternoon," she agreed, already making a note on a pad, "Anything else? How about that holiday you wanted? Have you got somewhere in mind?"

"The place in France should do it," he said vaguely.

She nodded, calculating something under her breath. "That would be the eighth and let's say Paris for three days and then a car down to the farmhouse." She looked up to ask, "Will a month be long enough or should I plan for more?"

He was just looking at her, grinning like a mischievous little boy with so much affection in his eyes that she almost smiled back without even knowing what the joke was.

"Do you know," he told her, "How much you let me get away with?"

"Just don't kill anyone," she ordered, "I'm not arranging an alibi for you with a stripper."

He laughed and she knew it was alright. He didn't want a serious discussion about it. He took it for granted, mostly, what she did for him. She took it for granted too. She grumbled and fussed and made certain demands, but really she only did it for the same reason every other manager had ever taken his case. Brian charmed them into thinking he was something wonderful.

Sometimes, Shannon had her doubts.

After all, how fertile could one person's creativity be? Brian had explored a whole range in ten years. How long could he keep going?

Knowing Brian- another ten years.

Shannon put the note pad by her plate and fumbled for her cigarettes. She glared at the outstretched white fingers from across the table but passed the packet over before diving into her bag for her lighter.

Brian waited for her to finish before he lit his cigarette and took a long pull on it.

It was relaxing, smoking. He didn't do drugs any more but smoking was one vice he allowed himself. Smoking and drinking. Perhaps he should stop drinking, however. He was beginning to lose seconds and minutes, dragging his mind back to the present to find he was forgetting something. It didn't happen often, and never unless he let his mind wander away on a moonbeam, but when it did happen it scared him. So perhaps he should stop drinking?

"I should tell you now," he said suddenly, "I, er, had a bit of an accident in my room last night."

The cigarette paused on its way to her mouth. "What happened?" The softness in her face was gone, replaced by the hard look of the businesswoman.

"Drinking, coping, throwing a fucking tizzy." He laughed a little. It really was funny in a morbid kind of way. "The place is a little broken."

"How broken?"

He only said, "Pay the bill, right?" in a voice of such studied casualness that she knew it had been bad.

She pursed her mouth until her lips went thin but she didn't haul off and yell at him for wasting good money they had worked too hard to get just for a few seconds of mindless violence. Sometimes, it really was going too far to mother him and push at him the way she was forced to do. He usually snapped back. Well, it was bloody boring for her, too, only Shannon didn't think he'd ever thought about it from her side before.

"Okay, then. I'll go finish that now."

"You, er, might want to wait," he broke in.

She stilled and she wondered what he had done this time.

"There's someone there," he said, "Asleep."

"One of the band? The crew?" Brian shook his platinum blond hair and Shannon thanked God for it. "One of the maids? Stewart."

"Arthur, yeah."

Shannon sat down again. "You did it," she moaned heavily, "You really fucking did it."

"You should have seen him. He was beautiful."

"I. Don't. Want. To know."

"You should. I'm thinking this could be something new."

Shannon dropped her head. "Brian…"

"Oh, no more Tommy?"

"Tommy Stone is not half as stupid," she said harshly, head snapping up, "What the hell were you thinking? Arthur Stewart is a reporter. He's got you by the balls and you fuck him?"

Brian just smiled and stubbed out the remains of his cigarette. "You're taking this the wrong way."

"I am? Oh, ta, luv, I'll remember when the sodding tabloids have your arse, and mine with it!"

"He's not going to go to the tabloids, Shannon."

"How do you know?"

"He's just pissed with me about Brian Slade," Brian dismissed, "He got his head messed up when Maxwell Demon got shot. That's all. Nothing about money or scandal."

"And how do you know this, may I ask?"

Brian shrugged. "I asked around."

"Bullshit. I do the asking. You open your Goddamned mouth and croak. How do you know?"

"I talked to his editor."

"I spoke to his editor, Brian."

The rock star kicked himself for walking into that one. It would have sounded better to have just said it straight off- "Curt told me. I called him up about this and he said he'd checked him out. He swore the kid was honest."

"Honest. Curt…" Words failed her. But she tried again, swallowing so she could speak around the lump in her throat. "Curt Wild wouldn't know honesty if it bit him."

Brian's face lost its amiable good humour. "Let's not start," was he all he said.

Shannon tightened her lips and gracefully extracted herself from the situation.

Brian calmed down and sighed. He hated upsetting Shannon. She was harder to placate, now that she was so used to him. He quite cared for her, in his own way. They didn't often agree, and he hardly ever remembered to treat her with any civil dignity, but he did know what he owed her.

But there were times… his temper kindled again and he scowled at the door she had exited. There were times he really did want to just strangle her.

Stupid bitch. Mindless; really. No soul in her.

Brian got the note when he was sitting there, sipping coffee as though nothing was wrong. He accepted it with a smile and nod, opening it with dexterous fingers and a lot of regard for the papers. He'd learned very fast that one needed to be careful opening letters; one didn't know what impossible news was in them. In an emergency, he preferred to have any written documents ready to be produced.

"For fuck's sake," he chuckled.

He stalked to the phone and put a quick call down to reception. "No, tell him to wait there. Yeah. Won't be moment. Course not! Great friend of mine." He proceeded down to reception and there he was.

Ray was trying, bless his heart, to be as discreet as he could be. No make-up, no outrageous clothes, no off-colour jokes.

Tommy Stone came forward with a hand outstretched and a very exuberant exclamation of surprise. "Good to see you."

"Hello, Mr. Stone," Ray grinned.

Stone thought the lack of anything outwardly decadent really didn't make much difference when the man managed that smoky, husky, thickly accented voice. His grin widened a little. "Hey, what's with the formality, guy? You're not here on business, are you?"

It was a very subtle implication. Much as Stone found this man interesting, he wanted no part of him. Not as Tommy Stone. And if Ray had any questions about Stone maybe-sometime-somewhere needing a guitarist, Stone was going to firmly and finally decline the offer.

"Tom, then," Ray said lightly, "No. No business. Came to see that boy of mine."

Stone raised an eyebrow and gestured to a quiet corner of the lobby. "Your boy?"

"Oh. Mistake. I meant Arthur." Ray pulled out a cigarette and lit it, smoking for all the world as if it was as natural as breathing air. "I thought I'd say hi to you while I was here."

"Always good to see a fellow musician."

"Always good to see one of us win," Ray quirked back, "Very good for our collective ego. Little musician mums tell the little musician kiddies to drink their milk so they c'n grow up to be big, strong Tommy Stones."

Brian stiffened ever so slightly in his seat, his grey eyes narrowing. Those words had been vicious, deflected off from actual hostility by the fact that Ray just didn't care enough to be obvious. "I see," he said carefully.

"Did I embarrass you?"

"No." Stone dropped his smile and his mask just a little. Just enough to play.

"Good for you. That young bastard is trying to think of ways to throw me out." Ray glanced back at the receptionist. "Children are so hurtful these days."

"Always have been," Stone said robustly, "Have you had a call up to Arthur?"

"He's not answering. I thought you would know where he was."

"I haven't a clue," Stone returned.

"Right, then. I'll be heading off."

"What's the rush?" It was Brian's grin that came through, "My morning's free. Recovery and rest and all that."

"Oh, yes. The show. How was it?" Ray stopped playing with the tassel on his shirt and looked up to catch that look. "Papers cost money," he whispered, "And I'm broke."

"Would you like a paper?" Stone asked with perfect composure.

Ray was watching him, not quite sure about something in that face. It hadn't changed, but there was something different. Something off. Or maybe it was the words. It could be the words. He wasn't aware of having insulted the rock star. Though Stone was likely to have him thrown out if he was insulted. He didn't seem to be the vengeful type. Loud and brash, but not vengeful.

"I'd like a paper," Ray agreed.

Stone had one of every publication in the hotel brought to them. "What were we talking about?" he laughed, "My damned memory. I swear, I'd forget my own name if I didn't see it on the marquees."

"The show," Ray says, "The reviews seem good." He was glancing through the Herald. "I'm almost sorry I didn't get to see it."

"From what I remember, it's not your music," Stone soothed, "How's La Glace?"

"Getting popular."

"Oh? I must come visit again."

"Is that your type of music, Tommy?"

"I like all types of music."

"English fag rock too? I thought Americans didn't like homosexuals."

"Nothing to do with homosexuals," Stone said easily, "It's all just music. Like chocolate. We don't eat the wrapper, right? I like the music."

"You know, Tommy, you should talk to some of these critics," Ray laughed, throwing the paper back on the pile, "They despise cock rock. Men in make-up? Why, it's shocking." He offered an arch look of comical panic. "They just don't know what the fuck it means."

"I've never thought about that too much myself. What does it mean?"

Ray looked at him and looked startled when his smouldering cigarette burned his fingers. "We had this one guy, see? Back in the Seventies? He was brilliant. Good music, intelligent, great arse. Started this whole business right up. He said it was all masks."

"All masks," Stone repeated. He remembered the analogy going a little differently but it was surreal enough that he felt oddly disconnected from the whole thing. "You think it's all masks?"

"I think it's all beauty. Everyone wants to be beautiful. But little boys, see, we're not allowed to be beautiful." Ray laughed again, but this time with genuine amusement. "So we never learned. And when we said 'Sod it' and did it anyway, we did it the only way we knew how. We dressed like our bloody mothers."

Stone laughed too. Really laughed. Because it was just too priceless. Funny and sad and tragic, but really, so funny at the same time.

He was quite happy to spend a little time with Ray.

Ray seemed to be quite happy where he was, too. "We all want to be something special," he said, "Be famous. Not like the kids, now, see, not like that. Famous in a crowd is what they want. No, we wanted to be special in everything. Say something new, be something new. Beauty was new. For us. Back in those time. These kids will never know what it's like to be bright and coloured and high as the birds on the grey streets of London. They just won't."


	21. 21

Author's Note: Things are looking up. Things are changing. And updates will come faster, I promise.

----------------------------------------------

Two weeks flew on silver wings and Tommy Stone found himself too busy to think about the reporter from the New York Herald. Shannon informed him coolly that Mr. Stewart had asked for a reservation on a flight back and Stone had nodded agreeably and let it happen.

Arthur had made every attempt to be civil on the night before he left.

Brian hadn't wanted civil. He had smiled, made good conversation and listened with his grey eyes fixed unwaveringly on Arthur's long, nervous face, that sensitive mouth that spouted the most inane rubbish at the most inappropriate times.

He had made no secret of his intentions. He acted like a lover, with soft words and soft glances. He made Arthur laugh. And then he took the man upstairs to his room and had sex with him.

It was easy. Arthur really didn't know how to counteract anything Brian chose to do to him. He just couldn't understand the way the other man's mind worked. Brian could see that very clearly.

It depressed the hell out of him- made him feel like one of the old lechers in La Glace, preying on the young and innocent.

The last two shows took his mind off things and he spent his time in practice and publicity, finally free from all other distractions. Tommy Stone liked his solitude best and sent himself to sleep every night with a fifth of a bottle of whiskey every night, drinking to take the edge off the silence.

He really did prefer things this way. In the old days… Brian didn't like remembering the old days. In the old days there'd be people to get drunk with, but they had always made demands on his time and Brian hadn't been able to shake them off. Shannon had had to do that. Shannon and his disgrace, naturally, but Shannon had gotten rid of the most persistent once he was deposed as the King of Glitter Rock.

"No one replaced him," Ray had said, speaking of Brian Slade.

Tommy Stone suspected the guitarist had some sneaking suspicions about things, because that thin face always adopted the sliest look he'd ever seen before. A triumphant glance of knowing. Stone wasn't sure what Ray knew, but he didn't think he wanted to have that conversation.

When the last show finished, Stone took the night plane back to New York. He spoke to Shannon about his future plans only once, when he was at the airport.

"Cancel the trip to France, Shannon," he said, "I'll stay in L.A."

"Are you sure?" she asked in concern.

"I've got a few ideas I want to work on. France isn't convenient."

She'd only shrugged and got on with the arrangements. But Stone suspected she knew, too. It was obvious. He hadn't said anything, but he wasn't exactly going out of his way to cover things up. Not like the elaborate charade for Maxwell Demon. Nothing close. He expected Shannon to know.

He saw less of her in Los Angeles. She had her own home, her own office. Their interaction tended to be limited to public spheres. But she was happy to hear from him when he called her up and invited her to breakfast one morning after his second cloistered week back in his mansion. He even let her in himself, in bare feet and jeans, the bleach beginning to fade out of his messy brown hair.

He kissed her on the cheek, knowing it would soften her.

Shannon followed him into the kitchen, setting down her purse on the breakfast counter that she knew very well Brian hated to use. "You just woke up?"

"No, I was working," he said, "I'm writing again."

"It sounds like a disease," she remarked.

"It is when you can't stop," he retorted, "Come. I've been awake since six and I'm dying for coffee. Want one?"

"I'd love one."

He didn't talk much as he gestured her over to the table to sit down.

She watched him work and smiled to see him concentrate. He wouldn't even boil an egg but he could use a coffee maker with the best of them.

Shannon knew what was coming and it surprised her that she was looking forward to it a little. She had spent some downtime thinking about it, waiting for Brian to call because she just knew that he would. And he had called. It was only a matter of time before he made a decision either way, particularly if he was writing again.

He came back and set the coffee pot down without a word, glancing up at her from under raised eyebrows.

"Settled in, yet?" Shannon asked, pouring herself a cup of coffee.

"Yeah," Brian smiled, "Got the papers?"

"Here." She tossed them to him and grinned when he delved right in. He always started meticulously with the headlines and worked his way through. Brian's method of reading the newspaper could take the whole day. He read every article, every opinion piece, every column.

"The in-depth piece is due this weekend," Shannon offered quietly.

Brian nodded absently and absorbed the state of the environment and endangered species.

"Mr. Stewart's piece," Shannon said unnecessarily, "About the London show."

Grey eyes flicked up briefly, but with the barest hint of a smile in them. "Fishing, are we, Shannon?" Brian laughed, "What? Do I throw a tantrum or look heartbroken?"

Shannon fervently hoped he would do neither. She'd handled both before and neither were a pleasant scene. She preferred to see him like this- sitting peacefully in the sunny kitchen, steaming cup of coffee at hand and the newspaper spread out on the table, relaxed and flippant and genuinely at peace. "I'm just saying," she excused, "We can still pull out."

"We signed a contract."

"I'm not stupid, Brian. I had the lawyers put in a clause or two. I can keep them in the Courts long enough to make it too much work," she suggested.

Brian laughed again and shook his head. "What would I do without you?" he asked.

It was a serious question. Of a sort.

"Don't talk tripe, Brian, you'll just find someone else," she snorted, "You always do."

"I haven't had another manager since Jerry," he pointed out, "Ten years with you. You know all my habits."

"So break in someone new."

He made a face and went back to the paper.

Shannon didn't need the paper to occupy her. She didn't get the time to do nothing very often. When she did, she liked to take it. Brian couldn't do that for longer than a few days. She'd taken it for granted that he would be writing or painting or taking a vacation by the end of the week. He was right, she did know all his ways. She'd been with him since… oh, '71 or '72? Something like that. Over ten years. She'd been the only one he tolerated by '74.

"You're thinking again," Brian said suddenly, "I can hear you all the way over here."

"What'll you do," she asked, "Without me?"

"Don't know."

"You're really quitting this time, aren't you?"

He put the paper down and this time she knew it was serious. Brian Slade didn't relinquish his paper for anything less than momentous. The fact that he leaned back as far away from her as he could settled the matter.

"It's not exactly working out anymore, is it?" he asked.

Shannon sighed. "You make it sound like a fucking marriage," she said.

"No, that would have been a disaster. Never liked it much the first time."

"Then why did you marry her?"

He didn't reply that day. Or the next day. Or the next week. Shannon spent the next few weeks in Los Angeles drawing up all the usual paperwork to dissolve their partnership. Hopefully Brian wouldn't be too difficult about what he owed her. She deserved a lot for what she had done for him. No one could put a price to working eighteen hours a day for ten years. No one could put a price to the harassment and haranguing she'd had to take when Brian tried to make things work before Stone. The seedy clubs and the drunken men. And usually it was just her, Brian and Brian's guitar.

Shannon had drawn up the paperwork before. For Brian. When Brian wanted to quit from Jerry's label. She'd handed her resignation in to Jerry and run around for Brian.

"You're making a big mistake," Jerry had told her, "That guy is finished."

Jerry hadn't thought, just like all the others hadn't- if Brian could create one Rock God, Brian could create another.

"Sandy Wakeman," she remembered, her lips twisting a little, "God, how sweet!"

Sandy Wakeman had been very sweet, indeed. An English lad who went off to Australia to release two albums of musical chaos. Jazz and Soul infused with brash rock vanity.

Bertrand Thomas had done 'Black Tar' in… Sweden, was it?

Shannon had managed to talk him into releasing the damned thing in Los Angeles. The little kids had had fun with the horror-story inspired art rock.

"My Frankenstein," Brian had laughed, mocking the reporters with an American twang, "Don't look! It's alive!"

The reporters had succumbed. Every reporter eventually did.

Shannon read the weekender issue religiously and thought it was quite good. Nothing over the top, and just the slightest bit reserved but hopefully they would only think he was being objective, rather than disapproving.

Brian didn't contact her for weeks. When he did, it was to ask if she'd settled everything.

"There's a few financial matters," she said immediately.

He wasn't happy, and he beat her down by a good bit, but Shannon got the feeling that he wasn't actually that interested in her any more. He'd moved on. She could tell from the sound in his voice, from the distraction and the way he didn't have anything really personal to say beyond the fact that he was well aware of her loyalty and couldn't see why he needed to pay for something she had chosen to give him.

Shannon didn't take it personally. Brian certainly didn't. And she called him Brian, now, leaving aside Tommy Stone because she was certain that Tommy Stone was going to retire sometime soon.

She wasn't far wrong.

The next month proceeded without event and she sent the papers to him, waiting anxiously for him to sign them. More than relinquishing of her control and knowledge of his affairs, she wanted him to relinquish her from her contractual obligation to take no other client while she worked for him. There was an offer she was interested in- a sweet girl with a face like an angel and a mouth like a sailor. Shannon could see possibilities to expand her repertoire and they stretched so endless she needed to move fast. Brian's lassitude was holding her up.

And then an old friend in the business called her up and cautioned her. "Babe, you can't tell me you don't know what your Tom is up to?"

Only Laurie Bennet ever called Tommy Stone 'Tom'. Shannon knew Bennet; he was a media mogul who'd thrown his considerable backing behind an unknown pop-rock potential because he said the man had flair and his woman manager was a tiger with unclipped claws.

"No," she said warily, "I don't."

"Then I guess I should tell you. There's going to be an interview with him. Rumour has it he's coming clean about some big secret in his life."

"I see. Well, Bennet, I'm sorry I can't get you an exclusive. Tommy's his own man now. I've got other interests and we've decided to part company."

"Really? So there's no need for you to keep mum, eh? A little leak would do me a world of good, Shannon."

"Sorry, Bennet," she laughed, "You know how it goes."

"You know," he told her soberly, "Tom wouldn't do the same for you."

Shannon closed her eyes and felt an almost phantom ache at that reminder of how far the changes would affect her. She remembered thinking that Mandy was being stupid to cling to Brian like she had. She remembered Curt Wild's face when she told him the taxi had come for him and Brian hadn't yet surfaced from his room.

Was that what it was like? Everybody tore themselves in two because some part of their souls would always follow Brian Slade?

"Shannon?"

"You know, Bennet, we're just two different people. Tommy's got his way of protecting his own."

"Wow, there, tiger lady," he laughed, "I'm not calling you on that. I know better. Got room for dinner with me this week?"

"How's your wife?" she asked acidly.

"Fucking her therapist. How's your schedule?"

"No, Bennet. Not now."

Laurie took the hint and didn't question her. But before he hung up on her, he had one final note to add- "It's the end of an era, isn't it? That guy from Ohio dies of an overdose, that car crash for the band, you know the one with the purple logo. And now Tommy Stone. It's not turning out to be a good year for the music business."

Shannon gave him a twisted smile even though she knew he couldn't see it. "Bye, Bennet."

"Call me." He was gone.

Shannon stared at the phone for a long time and then put in a call for Brian. If there was something going to happen, she wanted to know about it. She wanted to be told. She could feel the hairs on the back of her neck prickle as the panic washed cold through her tensed shoulders.

He wasn't picking up. Shannon tried a few friends, even an old lover that practically poured obscenities over the phone the minute Shannon mentioned Tommy's name. The lady slammed the phone down and Shannon concluded that she knew nothing.

She found out about it, however.

She got a call from some friend in New York who asked her if she knew what Brian had just done.

"He's what?" she yelled, on her feet and trembling with shock.

"Honestly, Shan, what's going on? Curt Wild introduced the guy as Brian. Is that true? I need a comment."

"I can't give you one."

"Shan, I know you're surprised. I'll print that if you want, but it would be better for you to make a comment. I'll be nice as I can, I promise, but I'm running with the story. What connection is there between Stone and Slade? Christ, even their last names sound similar!"

Shannon's heart was racing and she pressed a manicured hand to her chest, trying to catch her breath and formulate an answer that wouldn't make her sound foolish. "Lee, I don't know," she confessed, "Look, Tommy's got his own agenda now. I don't work with him any more. I really can't tell you anything about this."

There was a silence clause on her contract. The contract that Brian hadn't yet released her from. Shannon could be sued for opening her mouth. Inwardly she raged, dying to point out that she couldn't speak because she didn't have the facts. She didn't have a handle on what was going on. She was in Los Angeles and Brian wouldn't return her calls.

"Shan, you need to give me more than that," Lee demanded, urgent and aggressive, "Listen to me! The papers are going to have a hell of a time with this so you need to come clean and then disappear for a while. You don't want them to pin you both!"

"I have nothing more to say."

"Shan…

"I have nothing more to say!" Shannon slammed the phone down.

She heard about Curt Wild's sudden resurrection from nowhere. She heard about the show in a tiny club in New York because Wild had given a standout performance and then stopped half-way through to introduce 'an old friend of his' called Brian.

She took her phone off the hook because the calls were driving her up the wall. She stayed in her front room and ignored the few reporters outside her door that demanded to know what was going on. Her P.A tried to get her to eat but she felt sick. Her hands were shaking and her muscles were so knotted with tension that she walked with the slow gait of someone hurting down to their very bones.

Shannon had been prepared for it. She had known what was going to happen. She had told herself that she wouldn't end up like all the others- casualties of Brian Slade. And there she was, curled up on the couch in a curtained room and nails leaving marks in the expensive leather.

Shannon watched the interview, too. Her eyes were so dry they hurt but she kept them open for fear of missing any single glance from those grey eyes. Anything. She would have forgiven him for all of it if he had only had one look of guilt for the camera. She could have fantasized that the guilt was for her even if it wasn't and she could have gone on from there.

But there was nothing. Brian- and it was really Brian- came out in blue and black leather, with mascara and brown hair, his pixie face looking older but no less alluring than it had all those years ago. He chatted to the host, laughed about his changes and fed the scandal.

"There's nothing between me and Curt," he said, smiling that mischievous smirk, "That ship passed long ago."

His old accent was back and their flashed publicity photos from all his various incarnations onto the screen as he told stories about all of them. He turned himself into a circus and whirled the whole world around on his long, lithe fingers.

The next day Shannon received the signed papers absolving her.

She washed her face, did her hair, put on a neat suit of subdued gray with her pearl earrings and went back to work with a lighter heart.

Brian, in his own way, had taken care of her. He had given her freedom the moment it was convenient for him to do it. He was selfish and self-centered, yes, but he had tried to make things right for her. She couldn't ask for more than that.


	22. 22

Arthur was having a really bad day.

His boss was off the wagon and his boss' wife and his boss' hangover were making the office miserable. That, and Arthur's head was playing tricks on him.

Tricks were fine, for the most part. Arthur liked tricks. He used to play tricks on people when he was a boy. Kid stuff, really- caterpillars down people's backs and tin beetles in glasses of milk. Things like that. But Arthur's mind was conjuring up thoughts and scenarios other than the ones he needed to produce credible work.

He found himself thinking of warm country rain on the outskirts of Central Park. He had flashbacks of (the big store that had to shut down in London; Glam Rock era) when he passed a women's clothing boutique. Twice he thought he was being followed and actually concocted espionage stories complete with names to amuse himself while he was racing towards a deadline.

Still, Arthur could handle his mind. He had experience where his mind was concerned.

It was Brian Slade's little trick that was causing the most damage.

Arthur had almost thrown his half-empty beer glass across the bar when a reporter friend of his presented his new piece- the story that Curt Wild had recently done a show in downtown New York and invited a friend named Brian to share the stage. Arthur didn't need to discuss who this mysterious Brian was. He knew. First-hand.

He knew that Brian had a tiny birthmark on his right shoulder and that the hair on his body was sparse and fine. He knew that those long legs were deceptively thin and those thighs could squeeze around a man's waist with gratifying vigor. He even knew that Brian had a choice selection of raspy curses that he let fly when he was in the middle of sex.

So, yes- he knew who this 'friend' was and it was the cruelest trick of all. That Brian could traumatize his personal life was one thing. Brian was now sabotaging his career, and that was unacceptable. That was poison in his veins.

Al hadn't taken it well. Arthur had been summoned to his editor's office when the story broke and the moment Al sniffed out the truth that Arthur had always known, the old man had hit the roof. Arthur had never been treated like that before and contrary to his later frame of mind could do nothing except stand there with his eyes wide as his pride took a severe beating.

He left the office and grabbed his bag, not even stopping to look his colleagues in the eye. Everyone had heard. He knew they had heard because the whole office was silent and he could feel their stares burning into his back.

The one thought in his head was that he could get fired for this. The word 'fired' pounded in his temples in time with his feet. But he made it out to the streets before he felt physically ill.

The shock wore away as he got into the subway. The shock was gone by the time he got out again.

Clattering up the stairs to the City version of fresh air, Arthur was tearing himself apart for this, pointing out to himself that he had known this would happen. That he had known something like this would go wrong. He had taken that risk. He couldn't blame Lou and he couldn't blame… well, no, he did blame Brian. Brian was always to blame! But he had been stupid to trust the ego of any rock star; stupider to imagine that the rock star had any notion of finer feeling.

He pounding up the stairs to his apartment and flung open the door hard enough to have it rebound on him. He locked his front door, dumped a plate left out on the counter in the sink and then marched into his bedroom. He stripped. And then caught sight of himself in the mirror.

His anger deflated.

There was nothing special about him. Arthur had accepted that a while ago. He wasn't handsome and alluring. Girls didn't look at him and see romantic dinners and fairytale lives. They saw a man who worked at a job that was sometimes interesting, sometimes exciting and otherwise mundane. They saw a man who wasn't given to lots of public appearances, who preferred to stay home and sketch or read. Arthur didn't even want to know how the men saw him- how Brian might have seen him.

Nothing deceptive. Nothing complicated. His life was easy and open. His face was easy and open. His work was easy and open.

He found himself sitting in a chair with a smashed record in his hands and the crushed feeling of breathlessness in his chest. For a moment he didn't know where he was. He didn't recognize his apartment. He didn't even recognize his own body. All he could feel was his fingertips pressed into the two main halves of the broken record.

Someone took the record out of his hands and tossed it to the carpet. Someone was saying something very soft. Very blurry too. Arthur squinted and tried to focus but he couldn't. He wanted to slip away again, go away where it didn't matter if he was breathing or thinking or just living.

"Hey, man, you okay? Kid? Can you hear me?"

He could. He really could. But he couldn't place the voice and he couldn't respond to it. The sand was suffocating him again and he thankfully let it into his lungs and went away again.

Curt Wild was getting truly worried by this time. He'd knocked on the reporter's door for a solid four minutes before finally picking the lock. It had taken a while, since he was rusty and maybe a little worse for wear, but he'd managed. And found Arthur sitting in a chair with that broken record in his hand.

He'd called out to him, told him he was a hard man to get a hold of and laughed a little. The man hadn't even looked up at the sound of his voice.

And then this- with the dilated pupils and quick, shallow breathing.

"Alright, buddy, let's get you lying down." Curt grabbed him by the front of his dark shirt and hauled.

Arthur wasn't as light as he looked. Curt was shorter by a few inches and thinner by a few pounds; he almost went over backwards. But Arthur was standing on his own, looking absolutely bewildered, absolutely vacant.

Curt didn't like it. Brian hadn't said anything about a catatonic reporter.

"I'll call a doctor, okay?" he said, though he didn't expect Arthur to answer, "Let's get you in bed, first. Maybe that's it, eh? Got any sleep last night?"

Arthur hadn't gotten any sleep the night before. He'd taped the interview and he hadn't been able to stop watching it again and again, hearing his job at the Herald smashing around his ears louder every time. He shook his head once and then followed docilely to his bedroom.

"Go on," Curt advised, "Just, er, lie down. I'll get a doctor. Ambulance or something. Shit, what do I tell them?"

"Not," Arthur said, still standing but leaning against the wall, "Not doctors. Can't."

"Can't? You can't go to a doctor?" Curt didn't get it. He gnawed at his nails. "You got a phobia or something?"

"No." Arthur shook his head and raised his hand to his face, pressing against his eyes. "No." He gave it another try, struggling to surface again in spite of himself. "I'm… fine. Just tired."

Curt dropped his hand and looked disbelieving. "Tired," he echoed.

"A minute. I need…"

They stood in silence for a while and when Arthur finally looked up, the world was still sparkling at the edges but not so badly that he couldn't focus. He focused on the other person in the room and almost gave up his mind altogether.

"Wild?" he said, blinking a few times in shock.

"Yeah. You're Arthur, right?"

The grin was familiar. The lines in that face were not. But not so different from the bar. Or the rooftop. Or the poster. Not so different at all.

"What do you want?" Arthur asked, knowing enough to take it for granted that Curt hadn't just come back to repeat any of their former little trysts. He didn't feel like one and wasn't in the mood for the other, anyway. "How'd you get in?"

"Yeah, about that," Curt looked sheepish, "You weren't answering, mate. I picked the lock."

"You did what?"

"Well, it's an easy lock and I thought I'd leave a note."

"You broke in to my house." Arthur didn't want to question any more. He was too drained and he couldn't take much more of the disembodied feeling. "Why?"

"Brian wanted me to tell you…"

That name. Arthur had heard that name far too many times in the past week and he was so tired of it all. He wanted to sleep- needed to sleep- and Curt Wild was standing in his bedroom and talking about Brian Slade. Arthur wasn't even listening to what the musician had to say. He could only wonder where Brian was, and if Brian had gone back to Curt, and if he could be allowed to be angry at the both of them and jealous of the both of them even if the feelings were entirely irrational.

"Arthur? You're slipping off again, man."

"Get out of my house," Arthur pleaded, "I don't want to talk about this now. Fuck off back to Brian and tell him to fuck off too."

"Arthur, I'm trying to tell you…"

"Don' tell me anything. Just go. I've 'ad a shit day and I need to sleep."

Curt sighed. "I know, man, I know. But I really need to just talk to you…"

"Curt. Leave."

"Arthur…"

"Curt, I'm not interested in anythin' Brian sodding Slade has to say to me. He fucking promised me the exclusive and I'm up shit creek because he's let the story out and my editor is busy dangling my balls on his keyring 'cause I didn't get the fucking story. So no, I'm not in the mood to listen. Get the fucking hell out of it."

Arthur was angry. Very angry. And while Curt Wild looked as though he was not the sort of person to get in a fight with, he was also looking very bewildered.

"An exclusive?" Curt repeated, "Brian promised you that? Hey, I didn't know. I just came to talk."

"Fine. Talk to someone else."

"Kinda hard. This is about you. And Brian. But then everythin's always about Brian, isn't it?"

"Not any more."

Curt held up his hands in surrender and let himself to pushed to the door. He dug his heels half-heartedly into the floor a few times, hoping Arthur would let him get a word in edge-wise. But everything he said Arthur interrupted. Finally, when the door loomed close and Arthur was reaching for the handle, Curt turned around and said, "I need the bloody pin back. That's all."

The hand stopped. "The pin you left in my beer."

"That's the one. See, I knew you'd get it." Curt smiled again.

Arthur shook his head and pressed at his eyes again. He felt as though he were coming apart. Slowly tearing apart from the bones outwards. He looked up tiredly and nodded. "Wait here. I'll get it."

He went inside and picked it out of the little box he'd put it in and came back.

Curt held out his hand and Arthur put the pin in it.

Curt slipped it in his pocket, nodded his thanks, and slipped out the door.

No, Arthur decided, he was not having a good day.


	23. 23

Curt trudged back to his new apartment, his hands jammed into the pockets of his jeans. The snow was gone but the nights were still cold. The wind tugged at the loose bits of hair around his face and he stuck his chin deeper into his chest.

The people passing him on the street seemed to be similarly afflicted, and they hurried past him with bags and thick coats and the frozen look of concentration on their faces that broke only when they scowled angrily at whatever was in their way.

He spotted a guy begging at the corner and fumbled for a few coins with his stiff fingers. The beggar was more upset that he wasn't getting more.

Ah, New York! Curt loved the old place.

He looked around with a grin on his face, winked at a lady passing him and chuckled when she muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like 'creep'. He liked the fact that New York had a foul mouth. That it spat and cursed and raved at everyone else who didn't understand that it was a whole world in itself and everyone who didn't live in it was an alien.

New York, to Curt Wild, was where he felt sane.

He bounded lightly up the stairs and then stopped short when he saw someone leaning against his door. "Hey! What d'you want?"

The man started and turned around.

"Stewart, right? Fuck! I thought you were some smackhead." Curt didn't seem to find it at all ridiculous that Arthur Stewart had tracked him down and invited himself over. He unlocked the front door and waved his guest in as a matter of course. Dumped his jacket over a chair.

"Mr. Wild, about…"

"Mr. Wild?" Curt laughed. Very deep and rough. "Talk about old! Just Curt, right?"

Arthur nodded and hefted his backpack higher on his shoulder. "Curt. Right. Sorry."

"S'okay."

"Yeah. Look, I wanted to apologize about the las' time we met. You caught me at a really bad time and I were dead tired, man. It was a crap day. I was just…" Arthur couldn't think of how to say it. "I was, er, not feeling too good."

Curt watched him, hips cocked and one hand on his waist. "Huh," he said, breaking his pose to wander into the kitchenette. "Want a beer?"

"I don't want to disturb you," Arthur demurred.

"You won't." Curt was very decisive. He took out two beers, opened both. One he kept for himself. The other he handed to Arthur with a pragmatic thrust that threatened to drop the bottle if Arthur didn't catch it. "You can sit down, man. I don't bite."

"I shouldn't stay too long."

"If you want. Sit down."

Arthur sat down. He took a cautious sip and looked around wonderingly. His own apartment was nothing to write home about but Curt's apartment was worse. Dirty walls and dinghy carpets that smelt of stains and dust. A couch that sagged in the middle and a scratched up old armchair. A poster of the Ratz adorned one wall and a print of a nude Chinese girl adorned the other. She looked out with her sad, tip-tilted eyes and her small mouth. Even the erotic position of breast and ass couldn't seem to lift the sadness he saw in her face.

"You like it?" Curt asked abruptly, jerking his head to her, "Pretty, isn't she?"

Arthur smiled politely and nodded, taking another sip of his beer so he didn't have to reply. He didn't know how to. He thought the girl looked too young to be posing in the nude but it wasn't for him to say.

"The guy died last year," Curt continued, "The guy who took the picture. He died of pneumonia. Can you believe it? Fucking pneumonia. He went to this den in Ohio and he found her. He said he wanted to remember her for the rest of his life."

"Did he?" Arthur asked.

"Remember her? Nah." Curt laughed. "He gave me the print years ago. Can't even remember her name, now. Sad, isn't it? People live and die and sometimes nobody even remembers them."

"I should go," Arthur said.

Curt bonded lightly to his feet and paced up and down, his tense energy snapping and crackling around him as he bit his nails. "I want to give you some advice." It was a peculiar announcement, and he said it with a defiant sort of sullenness. "You're mixed up in the wrong thing and you should know that."

"Wrong thing?"

Curt sat down again. "Brian." He looked up for a second and looked down for a second and then made eye contact as if helpless to think of any other way to express himself. "Look, Brian's a goddamned miracle but you got to understand that he's different. He's not…"

He stopped.

Arthur waited, watching him closely because the topic of conversation was so strange that it made him curious. He didn't know how much Curt knew. He didn't even know if Curt knew anything at all. After all, it wasn't anything great. He'd been with Brian only twice; Curt Wild had had an affair with the man. The two didn't even compare. It was the same way twisted around- he'd had one night with Curt Wild and Brian had had love. Whatever it was Curt was trying to do, it didn't seem to be necessary.

"I want to give you some advice," Curt ended, "But I don't have anything."

"I don't get it," Arthur said frankly.

Curt laughed a little to himself and scratched his chin, sorting things out with a rueful twist of his lips. "See, I can't tell you what Brian'll do. Thing is, he doesn't have to do anything. But if he wants something he'll storm heaven for it. He doesn't care; he just wants. He's like a big kid but smart. And when he doesn't want, he throws you out."

Arthur nodded encouragingly. He remembered this intimate voice.

"It's- it's like stepping stones. He doesn't go back. So he won't leave. He'll push you. He's good like that, Brian, very good." Curt licked his lips and flopped back in his seat, throwing his arms up to cushion the back of his head. "That's my advice."

It hadn't been much. What there was in it was confusing. Arthur couldn't tell if Curt really wanted to warn him or really envied his position. "Thanks," he said politely.

Curt smiled at him and closed his blue eyes.

"Can I ask yer something?"

"Sure."

Arthur fiddled with the neck of his bottle. "You don't remember me, right?"

Curt opened one eye and squinted, the lines at the corner deepening with the strain. Suddenly, the languor was gone though he didn't seem to have moved a muscle. "In the bar. Why?"

"We met once," Arthur confessed, "Years ago. After one of those, er, Death of Glitter concerts. You were really good. And I met you on the roof after."

Arthur had been expecting awkwardness. He was counting on it. He knew how to respond to Curt denying it or hedging around it. It was only to get things out in the open, so to speak. To settle things in his own head and give someone else the worry of remembering. Like Curt had the worry of remembering the girl on his wall, holding the memory for someone else; why not something similar for Arthur?

Curt didn't respond like Arthur was expecting- "We did it, didn't we," he sighed, opening the other eye and grinning, "Was that it?"

Arthur couldn't help giving in to the other man's obvious relief. "Yeah." He had nothing else to say.

"I was worried there. I thought I'd done something worse," Curt told him.

Arthur made polite conversation for a few more minutes. He felt the words dragging painfully out of his mouth and he wanted to have a sparkling conversation with Curt Wild because hell, it was Curt Wild and a little piece of Arthur wanted something that promised to be easy and honest and thoroughly about impulse. He counted down the time as best he could with his own heartbeats and when he finally ran out of things to say, he stood up and said he had to leave.

Curt shrugged and didn't get up. "Good luck, man," was all he had to offer.

It was a strange thing to say. But then Curt Wild wasn't the average person.

Arthur quite liked average people. Even if he was a groupie.

The chill air hit him with the force of a bomb in his lungs when he got to the streets. He'd been expecting to find Brian with Curt, or to find Curt as distant and hard to approach as when he'd worked on that piece for the weekender. But Brian wasn't there.

Which begged the question of where he was.

Shannon didn't know. Arthur was still shocked by that phone call.

"We parted company, Mr. Stewart," Shannon had said crisply, "Brian Slade is his own man now."

She hadn't even bothered to use the old name of Tommy Stone.

Just on a hunch, Arthur packed up his old backpack and trotted to the nearest record store. There were the usual teenagers in groups of twos and threes, the usual earnest looking types flipping through choices and deciding which piece appealed to them the most. A few browsers, too. Nothing special.

"Hey," he called, walking up to the counter, "I'm a journalist. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions."

"I'm busy," the girl told him.

He looked at her magazine, he looked at the store and he looked at the empty space around him. "It's for a piece I'm writing," he said sweetly, "For the New York Herald."

That was different, of course! The New York Herald wasn't a great paper but it was pretty good. The girl sat up straighter and though she still looked sulky, at least he had her attention.

"That whole thing with Tommy Stone," he began. He didn't get any further.

"That phony?" she interjected, "The only thing I can say about him is the guy's a creep. He should be locked up for selling all those lies to innocent little kids. I mean, God, some of them really dug him, you know?"

"I know," Arthur said, "I was wondering about his records. Do you have any?"

The girl snorted and popped gum in her mouth. "Plenty," she mocked, waving a hand to the stacks behind him, "No one's buying any more. Why should we? It was all lies."

It hadn't actually been lies, Arthur was forced to cede. He kept that opinion to himself.

"So no one's buying since they found out?"

"Sure. The guy ripped us off and everyone's pretty mad about it."

Arthur put his little notebook away and thanked her. He said she had been very helpful and he wasn't sure when the piece was coming out but she could keep an eye out for it. He left the store with the feeling that this was all somehow exactly what Brian- or Tommy- had wanted all along.

The next place he went to, he didn't bother talking to the store clerk. A tall gangly teenager with an earring was rifling through all the available Tommy Stone merchandize. From the look on his face, he was about to spend more than he really could afford to and was happy to do it.

"Hi, I'm a reporter with the Herald," he said immediately, smiling to prove he wasn't some pervert, "Mind if I ask you a few questions?"

The guy looked surprised but he nodded and turned to face Arthur. "What about?" was the only stipulation he asked.

"Tommy Stone," Arthur said, indicating the abandoned music, "Your opinion on the lies and cover-ups."

The young face split into a big smile and the brown eyes sparkled with animation. "It was the hottest thing I ever heard! My old man had this Brian Slade record and when I heard I got him to play it for me and then I put this stuff on and it was so awesome!"

Arthur did a double take and almost dropped his pen. "Really? I heard everyone was angry. Fans trashing their records and not buying any more. You don't have a problem with Brian Slade's lies?"

"Well, he lied," the guy shrugged, "So what. They all do it. I mean, they all sound so cool on TV and then they're complete idiots in private. Slade has class, man. Think about it. He didn't just play something new. He did something totally crazy! That's the stuff you dream about, right? Getting another life? He did it. Just like that. And everyone fell for it."

"Yeah," Arthur said, shutting his notebook again, "Yeah, it was pretty funny. So not everyone's mad about it."

"Nah! I'd say the little girls, maybe 'cause Brian's supposed to be gay but there's a lot of people who think it's funny. Anyway, it's just music, isn't it? Not like he killed someone."

"This time," Arthur said thoughtlessly.

"What?"

"Sorry, nothing. Thanks. That was a lot of help."


	24. 24

Author's Note: I keep forgetting what the actual name of Arthur's boss is, so I've been fluctuating between Al and Lou. I don't why! But anyway, I think I'll stick with Lou for now, at least until I can do some research. The minute I know for sure, I'll get back here and refine the story. Sorry about that!

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There wasn't a story in the reactions to Brian Slade's new emergence on the scene. That news died down in a week or so, replaced by more important international affairs. Slade himself seemed to disappear for a little while.

Arthur had taken a week off work, more because his boss had insisted he might throttle him if he tried to come back before then, and the week was up.

The man couldn't help but wonder if Brian had returned to Los Angeles. Or England. Or Sweden, where he had apparently been very happy for a little while. A Swedish waitress had come forward with the story that Bertrand Thomas had frequented her little shop every day of his two years in the country. There was brief conjecture about her four-year-old son.

The pin, too. What had happened to the pin? Arthur had never worn it, but now that it was gone, some indefinable sadness seemed to take its place. Some sense of vague loss. As though the pin symbolized everything he most treasured.

Yet Arthur Stewart was not prone to flights of fancy, and he washed his face and looked at himself in the mirror and mused that for all his various issues and troubled nature, he was a singularly simple man. An unfulfilled one, perhaps, but simple. He even put one of his old records on as he drank his coffee and tried to wake up. The old, bouncing music didn't sit well in the small enclosure. Not for anything more than its skewed perspective from the time and place in which he sat.

It was peculiar. People said New York was the place where anything could happen, where anything could find a home. Arthur didn't agree with that. He switched off his lights and locked his door and pondered about the inalienable fact that New York didn't want to know unless it was of some use to it.

Strangely enough, the last thing Arthur expected to see when he walked into his office was the long appraising stares from other people. After the anonymity of the streets, it was a wet fish in the face. He slowed down and looked around. "Wha'?" he demanded.

Carl held up his hands in disavowal and got busy with something else entirely. The rest of the office followed suit.

Arthur tossed his bag under his desk with a last dark look at Lou's door and grabbed the telephone. He called the Mayor's office about something to do with the sewage system and rambled through a worthless hour or so of work. There was very little else he could do.

"Hey, Art?"

He looked up and Shelley smiled nervously and held out an envelope. "You got mail." She stood back as though his disgrace was contagious.

"Ta," he said absently, not bothering any more.

The missive was short, to the point, and Arthur stormed into his editor's office less than five minutes later.

"Like hell I'll do this," he snapped, shaking the crumpled letter in his hand, "You can't ask me to do this."

"You're a reporter, Arthur. You get an assignment and you do it." Lou didn't even get up from his chair.

"Not again!"

"Sure, again. I'm your boss. What I say goes."

"I won't do it."

"You don't get a choice." Lou said it without a smile on his face, barely moving a muscle beyond clasping his hands on the desk. "You're a good kid, Arthur. But you're not thinking straight about this."

Arthur dropped into a chair. The chair was like everything else in the office- small and grey. Grey walls, grey metal filing cabinet, grey metal desk, and grey upholstered chairs. The only bright spots of colour were the potted plant in the corner and the papers scattered around.

The room was exactly like the man who used it. Lou had no need for colour, too caught up in language. The little man was perpetually untidy, perpetually vocal, and perpetually ready to start on about how the new age of cinema was ruining the satisfaction of a good book.

"You know," Lou continued, softening his voice and leaning forward, "Maybe you should take a few weeks off. Go somewhere."

Arthur glared at the interfering older man.

"Seriously, Arthur. When the last time you went away?"

"Few months ago," Arthur supplied helpfully, "Went off to England, remember, with Tommy Stone?"

Lou didn't like talking about that. It was a sore point. Woundingly embarrassing. "Not like that," he said impatiently, "Like a vacation. You're burning out, kid, and I don't need another burn out with Geoff still chugging bottles of vodka."

Arthur was most indignant. "'M not burning out, you daft bugger. I'm having a fucking awful time with personal issues."

"Oh," Lou grinned suddenly, "The usual, then."

"Yeah. The usual."

"Well, who's it this time?"

Arthur didn't say. He looked at the toe of his shoe and brooded.

"Christ, tell me she isn't married!"

Arthur looked up only long enough to roll his eyes in frustration.

Lou sat back in his seat and folded his arms, the old chair creaking beneath his weight. "Then he's married?"

"No!"

"Look, you don't have to tell me. It's none of my business. But when it affects your work, it's my problem too, Art, so you better make sure it doesn't affect your work. I hope you know I'd have kicked anyone else to the curb for doing what you did. The story comes first. I've always said so and I'll say it again. The story… comes… first. Numero Uno. Top priority. Got that?"

"Yeah, Lou."

"Take your long face outta here, then." Lou pointed him to the door.

Arthur pointedly stayed in his seat. "Why do I 'ave to go interview Slade?" he questioned.

Lou looked at the defiant young man over his glasses and knew why the dropped 'aitch' worried him. Arthur never dropped his 'aitches' unless he was verging on upset.

"You'll clean up your own messes," Lou said firmly, "What's the problem with Slade anyway? Did he make a pass at you that I don't know about?"

"The world doesn't revolve around sex, Lou. No, he didn't make a damned pass at me," Arthur huffed.

He wasn't going to say it was personal because Lou was fully capable of getting someone else in the office to interview him for his two night 'affair' with Brian Slade. And wouldn't that just let the cat out of the bag!

"Then stop acting like a goddamned school girl and interview the guy. Shut the door on your way out, eh?"

"Lou, why me? Get Shelley. She does the interviews."

"You're going, Arthur…"

"This isn't my field, Lou!"

"It's out of my hands," the editor shouted back. This time he pushed to his feet, placing his large hands on the desk and leaned forward on them, deadly intent on getting the point through the young man's head. "I'm telling you to go and do that interview. You'll do it. Or you'll resign."

Arthur had heard this happen before. He hadn't expected anything less. He'd lost the story in the first place and Lou was right to demand that he pay the paper back somehow.

His boss sighed and straightened up, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Arthur, there are three reasons here. One, I'm telling you as your boss. Two, I'm telling you as your friend. Three, the guy asked for you."

"What?"

"He asked. I went to him, said I'd send someone around, didn't say who; he said you or no one."

Great, Arthur considered it, truly a great time in his life. He'd never felt more like a piñata than with those words echoing in the tiny office. Whoever managed to beat him to a pulp wasn't going to find anything more than angst and guilt.

Arthur hung his head. "I'm going to kill him," he said despairingly.

"Get the interview first," Lou said, sitting down again and putting on his glasses. "You got the details? Good. That's all then."

Arthur knew a dismissal when it dropped like a brick on his head. He nodded, muttered something vaguely suggestive of a resignation and left the office, no longer fuming but still appalled by this new twist in his tale.

Carl tossed him a sympathetic look from across the room and Arthur offered a tight smile of acceptance.

Then he went to lunch. An hour early. He stayed out an hour late.

Shelley noticed he was gone and commented to Carl that he was looking really ill. "It must be rough," she remarked, glancing at his empty desk.

Carl nodded and scribbled at the typed up pages. "Yeah, I feel bad for him too. Arthur's a nice guy."

"He seems so sad," Shelley said, a hand plucking nervously at her throat, "All those black clothes! Did you notice he doesn't smile so much any more?"

"He's distracted, sure. Can you blame him? The guy's committed the cardinal sin of journalism. Well, one of the sins. There's a few and at least no one's suing us. Man, can you see Lou's face if there was?"

"He'd be fired."

"Probably. You know Lou."

"We all know Lou," she countered, "Hi, Abby. How's Denizen?"

"The bastard's got millions somewhere, I'm sure of it," Abby babbled, "Absolute millions!"

"Insider trading?"

"You bet, the shifty fat pig." She looked at the both of them and refocused her brain. Abigail tended to be more obsessive than most about her work. That, combined with her brains, got her high profile assignments. "What're you two talking about?"

"Arthur."

"Ah! The Stone stuff, right?" She leaned forward and dropped her voice. "You know what I heard? Lou's got him to do another interview with the guy. To get the skinny on Brian Slade and everything in-between. Arthur had a fit."

"Shell, that's your department. Why Arthur? I mean, it's not like he's a bad journo, but he's not got the head for interviews," Carl complained, "That weekender piece was bland as white cottons."

"I wear white cottons," Abby grinned naughtily, "Doesn't mean I'm bland, Carl."

"Hey, you're a different league, Abby," Carl laughed.

Shelley clicked her tongue and made her excuses. It was no skin off her nose if she got one interview less. She wouldn't have minded the thing in itself but Slade gave her the creeps. She'd read some of the stuff the other papers were digging out of the past and she wasn't sure that she could handle him.

Arthur- She remembered Arthur's face when Carl foisted that Brian Slade anniversary piece on him. He'd been panicked, but not exactly averse to it.

She planned to keep a close eye on one Arthur Stewart… when he got back from lunch.


	25. 25

Arthur found the bar. It wasn't very hard. He stared at the broken old sign and pedantically prepared himself for what he would find inside- one of those old-fashioned places with the bar on the side and a tiny platform for the next nameless rock band trying to make it big.

The usual place for a re-invented rocker trying to get back to 'roots' work.

He half-smiled to himself, thinking of how much he would enjoy chucking the whole job and going home. Just rebelling. Go home and forget all about Brian Slade or Tommy Stone, about Curt Wild, the chinese girl on the wall, about Lou and Carl and Shelley. He could even catch the next plane back to London if he wanted, to see how the girl reporter was handling Brian's unexpected re-emergence.

He could it, really. Ray would let him in and give him somewhere to sleep. Ray always would. The man was funny like that.

Malcolm was always approachable, even if Malcolm's wife didn't like him.

Or Pearl and Billy were still around. Any of the Flaming Creatures would take him in, no questions asked.

Arthur had the sudden thought in his head that he could pretend to be seventeen again, and do it the way he could have done it back in the glorious Seventies. He could turn up at a club, stay long enough to get invited somewhere, spend the night there, tramp the streets all day and go back to the club in the evening for another round. He'd known people who lived weeks like that.

But he was too old, now. Now, he was the one who was supposed to have the flat and the pills; who was supposed to pay for beer and cheap vodka. He was supposed to approach some brash young thing and ply him or her with enough intoxicating substances that they would agree to go 'home' with him so he didn't have to have another date with his sturdy right hand.

Arthur wasn't in the mood to take random, drug-fuelled drunks back to his apartment so they could perform their payment in exchange for a warm bed and some breakfast. And maybe cab fare if they did well enough.

"Get it over with," Lou had advised.

Arthur was fond of his old boss, he really was, but at the moment there was no love lost between them. He sidled up to the door and opened it and slipped inside.

It was old. That much was very true. Apart from that, it was surprisingly clean. With a large woman behind the counter and a country and western song playing from a jukebox. If the choice of music wasn't strange enough, Arthur locked eyes with a mounted river bass of fearsome proportions.

He blinked at it for a moment and his fingers tightened reflexively on the strap of his bag over his shoulder.

A pair of grey eyes watched him humorously from a corner table, a glass lifted part-ways. Brian Slade took a sip and then set the glass down, getting to his feet in case Arthur backed out again. He slid out from his seat and walked over, reaching out long fingers to wrap around Arthur's left arm.

Arthur saw him before he reached.

Brian saw something shift on the long face but surprisingly enough, the younger man held still. Even let his arm be taken. The most he offered was a civil greeting and then followed docilely enough to sit at the corner table.

"How have you been, Mr. Stewart?" Brian asked, flopping back into his chair. He glimmered a smile at the serious face.

Odder and Odder- Arthur's mouth curved and he shrugged. "Fine," he replied easily, "You?"

"Oh, I've been great," Brian said, running a fingertip around the rim of his glass, "Busy and all that. The usual."

"I guess rock stars don't do holidays, eh?"

"Not exactly."

Arthur looked him over quite openly. "No more hair dye?"

Brian had not expected this. "A little, but to get back my real colour, why?"

"It looks good," Arthur murmured, taking the top off his bottle of beer, "Quite like the old days, Mr. Slade."

Mr. Slade? Brian was almost certain the light tone was from a sense of humour. Indeed, Arthur looked quite comfortable, not at all his usual self, and he looked as though he really didn't mind his companion. But then again, Arthur was prone to strange behaviour. Brian picked bland chitchat.

"Yeah," he said, "Something like that."

"Right, right. 'Cause you're not really going back to th' old days, right?" Arthur continued, perfectly oblivious, "Moving forward. That's what you said in the Folly piece. But you can't really forget the past, right? So a bit of both."

"You've been reading those things?" Brian elected to ask.

"Homework," Arthur excused.

Brian nodded and lifted his glass. He drained it and then caught that brief glimmer again. This time Arthur glanced at the glass in his hand. Brian could almost read the comment.

He held up the glass up. "It's water, Art. I'm on the bloody wagon. Oh, don't laugh. It's my doctor. Seems my liver isn't too happy."

Arthur dutifully didn't laugh but he couldn't help grinning. He sighed and shook his head in amusement, slinging his jacket on the back of his chair while he was at it. He pushed his beer aside and tapped the table. "Wouldn't want to tempt you, now."

Was that flirting? Brian had never considered Arthur could flirt. He had assumed Arthur fell into relationships. The idea of the man unbending enough to flirt- let alone with him- was ludicrous. He discarded the idea as a figment of his imagination.

"It's not the alcohol so much," he told him, "More like the quiet."

"And the hangovers?"

Brian skilfully didn't reply to that. Looking over the black-clad shoulder he spied a game of darts and really considered it for a moment. He hadn't played darts in years. Not since he'd played small clubs in… Los Angeles? Well, that place in New Jersey once, but really, he didn't even count New Jersey. He'd stayed one night and left at four the next morning.

"So, Slade, why am I doing this interview?" Arthur interrupted.

"What?"

"Why me? Folly is a big name magazine editor. Laurel did that expose on the Senator last year so, yeah, I can see why she got it. But me? I'm an investigative reporter on a newspaper. Why get me?"

"You don't know the formula," Brian pointed out, "You won't ask me the awful shite I get sometimes."

"Folly was bad?"

"No, he was fine. Everyone's fine." Brian dismissed 'everyone' with a sneer. "But they're boring, man. Same questions, same attitude. Nothing for me to do but say the same things over and over."

"You should ask the journos. They say th' same. Get Shelley past three scotches and she tells you that she doesn't even bother to take notes any more because the celebs say the same thing over and over. She just records the lot and writes the usual."

Brian looked annoyed briefly and then smoothed the expression out. "Who's Shelley?" he asked.

"Shelley Gordon," Arthur elaborated quite candidly, "Does most of the big celeb articles. Interviews and things. She does those."

"Was I your first, then?" Brian laughed.

Arthur didn't appreciate the snide remarks from Brian. That last encounter was too fresh in his mind. He unclenched his fists and placed both palms flat on his knees so he wasn't tempted to land a couple of good ones.

"No," he said, "The Flaming Creatures got there first."

Too late he heard how those words sounded and he flushed slightly in mortification.

"Oh." Brian looked down at the table and traced patterns with his eyes. "Which one? Ray, I assume."

"Ray?" Arthur looked moody for a second. "No. That's another story." He looked up and said quickly, "I'm not telling it."

Brian grinned and nodded. "Wasn't asking. So, the interview came out good, eh?"

That was a confusing statement. "We haven't done it yet."

"Weekender issue," Brian said slowly, "Came out a while ago, I can't remember the date."

That one Arthur remembered. The last Tommy Stone piece before the news broke. That had come out alright, yes. That one was done with. "I'm here to do another one," Arthur said.

Brian looked as confused as he felt.

"You didn't know?" Arthur demanded.

"I called the paper to get your address," Brian snapped, "Nothing about interviews."

"Why'd you want my address?" Arthur shot back.

"To make sure you didn't take a bloody contract out on me for springing the news on national television! What the hell are you coming here for an interview for?"

Brian thumped the table as he swore colourfully.

The large woman at the bar hollered at him and he waved her off irritably. Apart from that, no one took the least notice. Even if anyone in the bar had been a fan of Tommy Stone, the likeness was so minimal as to be negligible. It was impossible to see unless one knew.

Arthur knew. And even he found it difficult. Surprisingly enough, he began to chuckle, lifting a hand to stifle the sound. The very idea of this tangled skein of who said what and meant what was blackly humorous. Arthur couldn't help laughing.

Brian glared at him for a moment from icy grey eyes before thawing slightly. "I'm sure it's funny," he said ominously, "But you're not getting any fucking interviews off me. I'm done. I'm not doing another one until I've got my gear sorted."

"And when's that?" Arthur asked.

"It'll be a while."

"So why ask for my address?" Arthur prodded. He leaned forward, one arm flat on the table for better leverage. To get closer, maybe, he didn't know. He just wanted to be sure he didn't miss anything. "I'm no use to you." Something else came to mind. "And you leaked the story yourself. Why bother with me?"

Brian shrugged, lighting a cigarette from nowhere. "I thought we could talk."

"We don' have anything to talk about," Arthur reasoned.

"We could fuck, then."

The words were so glib, so level, Arthur almost didn't realize what they meant until they slipped past him. And then they registered. And they made all too much sense. What didn't make sense was that Brian could be so nonchalant about it. Could sit there in his black shirt with no make-up and quite pleasantly suggest that they shag. As though it was something to be discussed.

"Don't even go there," Arthur warned.

Brian lifted his hands in surrender and let them drop. He looked around the bar again and pondered that he hadn't come to meet with the reporter to shag him. He was just… interested. Arthur interested him. Made him feel like there were stories to be told, people to meet.

It was strange, considering the other man's quiet nature, that he reminded Brian of the multitudes and crowds. Made Brian feel a little bit wild.

"It was just a thought," he smirked.

Arthur looked uncomfortable and then folded his arms on the table, moving his feet to find a more comfortable spot. But the knot in his stomach hadn't moved since he entered the bar and it didn't look as though it would leave anytime soon. "Brian," he said, "Why'd you ask me here? I mean the truth, mind."

Brian turned around and looked at Arthur with some surprise. He took a quick drag on his cigarette and then stubbed it out, inhaling and exhaling before preparing himself to answer the question. "You're seductive."

"What?"

The reporter was clearly shocked. Brian Slade leaned back in his seat with a slight smile and watched that pretty mouth open and shut a few times. The gentle eyes were wide and he could see a remarkable resemblance to a goldfish.

"Me," Arthur eventually sputtered, "I'm seductive? Like hell!"

"Oh, hell is very seductive," his companion teased, "But no, not in quite that way. You're… glam. Very glam."

Arthur looked down at himself. He was wearing a dark blue shirt instead of black, that was true, but nothing about his apparel had changed. No sequins or mascara or eyeliner or anything. Not even perfume or feathers.

"Oh, you thought glam was clothing?" Brian laughed. He began to tap out a complex rhythm with the toe of his shoe, grey eyes glittering in the overhead lights. "Glamours and masks are fine things, Arthur, but glam is different. Not glam like Lauren Bacall but glam like the little kids I acted fantasies for. That's you. A fantasist."

Arthur shrugged. "I was," he said.

"When was the last time you took a dream, Arthur?" Brian's voice had dropped to something dangerously low and soft, weaving patterns around the rhythm he was still tapping out. "The last time someone told you to shut your eyes and make a wish?"

A nagging doubt filtered in through the fog but disappeared just as suddenly.

"Do you still make wishes? Do you still wake up in the night and think of the best day you could ever have? The best night? The best lover?"

"You, Slade?"

"No," Brian said considerately, genuinely, "Just the wish. The want. Something…" he searched wildly for the right words, "Something that feels like you waited your whole life for it, and when you get it, it's more than you ever hoped for. You do that?"

Not for the first time, Arthur found himself neck-deep in a personal conversation with a man he told himself he didn't much like. How could he like him when Brian made no secret of toying with him from some arrogant sense of amusement?

How could he like him.

"Do you?" he asked bluntly.

"I've had it," Brian answered candidly, "I never sat around waiting for the phone to ring. I regret lots of things I did. Nothing I didn't."

It was a telling statement.

Arthur tapped out something nervously on the table and realized that he was tapping in time to Brian. The whole world was tapping in time to Brian. And Brian was tapping in time to the music playing around them; Arthur hadn't even noticed the old country song before. But now he did because Brian had tapped it into his pulse and into his fingertips and it was threading along his skin and doing unspeakable things under his ribs.

Higher and higher, spreading tendrils into his bones and bloodstream. A little more and it would reach his neck where the cool air would push and push and there would be warmth sparking into his nerve endings. And those sparks would be dangerous.

Brian suddenly stopped tapping. "Go on, then," he said, "Make a wish."

They didn't say anything more. Just stumbled back to Arthur's apartment and shut the door. Locked it. Brian dropped his jacket into a chair, not caring about the chill that turned to damp on its sleek exterior. He toed off his shoes and Arthur went ahead to open his bedroom door and check that everything was okay for a guest.

The younger man had just slammed the wardrobe door shut when Brian followed on his trail in bare feet and with his shirt already half-unbuttoned.

Arthur turned and looked at him and noticed the mirror just beside Brian that presented him with another image. Both were perfect; half-undressed with pale skin and dark brown hair cut just long enough to hang silky-fine on a long neck. The lips waiting for him, being chewed on in anticipation.

It took exactly five steps to reach him, to put his hands on that slender waist.

Arthur had put his hands on a man's waist before and there was no doubting now that Brian was a man. One could delude oneself as much as one wanted, but Brian's body was not soft or welcoming or curved to fit a man's hand. It was flat, with hard bone just beneath, and the curves were lovely but muscular from regular exertion.

Brian lived by his body- the human face of prostituted rock and roll.

Open-mouth kisses trailed spit-slick and eager, roaming from mouths to chins to cheeks to necks. Dipping down to shoulders and regretfully surrendering chests to fingers because standing was not the right way to do this.

Brian was the one who got them both lying down, took off the rest of both their clothes, and straddled the younger man with his long, dancer's legs. Propping himself up on his arms as he resumed the all-too brief exploration with his mouth.

Arthur had given way to the inevitable since Lou had told him to get it over with. Was it only one day? One morning and now the night? It couldn't be. It felt like a lifetime with a warm, wet tongue ghosting over his sternum, following the hollow of his stomach and playing maddeningly with the little hairs on his skin.

"Stop that," he pleaded, trying to get a grip on the dark hair. But it was too short. Too fine. It slipped right through his fingers and he was afraid of simply gripping the skull. Brian seemed all the more fragile framed in yellow lamp light.

Brian only laughed and teased him some more.

Brian was the one who got the KY, who swore blind that there was no disease either of them were likely to catch since they would have caught it from their times before, and then proceeded to put his legs over Arthur's shoulder when the man faltered.

"What's wrong?" he whispered, reaching up to touch the pointed chin, "It feels good."

"This's happening again," Arthur said inadequately. He didn't expect Brian to understand. He just felt he needed to let him know he could see the gun in his head again, see the way Brian just stood there and let it happen to him. The same look of calculation masked with defeat.

"Hurry up and let it happen," was all Brian returned.

Brian expected it to hurt. He wasn't so used to it anymore. But it gave him a perverse pleasure to feel the pain and hear Arthur's breathe catch. To smell the sweat and sex that wrapped around them.

A car blared on the streets outside and he thought of the wind and the rain and the cold, and it didn't matter because the pain was receding and Arthur was almost there, so close, so close, almost there. Then he shifted and Brian's mind wasn't concentrating on anything so much as the gut-wrenching need for more in his veins.

He moved too, trying to get more, to give more. To make it all better. Because sex could do that for a little while, he found, it could make things all better.

So he arched his back and bit his lip, moaning when the pressure grew more than he could bear. Brian wouldn't close his eyes, even when Arthur did.

And he saw the snap-flick under squeezed shut eyelids as Arthur's orgasm hit. Felt it in the uncontrolled thrust that pushed so deep into him he thought there would be no getting the feeling out again.

That was the last thought before he melted away into hot, white light.


	26. 26

Author's Note: Whew! I'm getting slow nowadays! I do apologize. On the up-note, we're almost there. Just a couple more chapters to go.

------------------------------------------------------

Arthur suspected he would be suspended again once he finished with the assignment still waiting on his desk. Lou didn't like people to play fast and lose with his paper. So Arthur sidled into the office with a fervent prayer that his boss didn't know he was five minutes late.

Shelley was sitting on a tiny section of his cluttered desk, thoughtfully nibbling on her nails and reading a photocopied load of papers. She caught sight of him and waved, smiling nervously in the way she did.

Arthur squinted but proceeded on. "Morning," he said enquiringly.

"This is for you," she said brightly, giving him the papers, "They came through an hour ago. Nick's waiting for a call back."

"Thanks. I'll read 'em in a sec. Any coffee around here, Shelley?"

"I wouldn't drink it. It's been there for a few days."

Arthur made a face and shook his head. "Right, then. No coffee."

Shelley got off his desk and wandered off, trotting back to her own space without a backward glance.

Arthur snuck a look at Lou's office door. Telling his boss wouldn't be fun, but getting it over with would be preferable. After all, Lou would let him finish his piece first, and there were a couple of days left to beg and plead. Besides, it wasn't his fault Brian hadn't meant an interview when he called up about him. How could he be blamed?

"Hey, Art. Lou's looking for you. Better go see him right away."

Arthur obeyed docilely, holding his breath all the way.

He managed to get himself in the door without capitulating to the childish urge to run away. He considered logically that there was nothing to feel so scared about, since he was an adult and adults were supposed to be able to handle these things. Kids and Teenagers ran away from their problems; adults were supposed to face them with dignity.

Arthur didn't consider he had much dignity left.

But Lou only shrugged and told him to get out. "Get the other thing."

Arthur was glad to escape with just that.

The sun was brilliant that day. Central Park was freckled with yellow and red. The New York air was just cool enough to bite without hurting. Good weather, in fact, that hadn't been around for a while.

Arthur was glad for that too. He was glad for a lot of things that day. He was glad to get about his own business. As a disgraced reporter, he didn't get to work on important assignments. So he ambled along, glad that Nick was still in his office when he called up about the blueprints.

Nick was helpful- for a City employee- but then Arthur wasn't exactly asking for anything much. No one else was interested in the sewage system of New York. No one else wanted to even think about it, let alone investigate what exactly went into it.

"I'm happy to come down tomorrow," Arthur offered, "Five minutes. Just show me where things are and I'll take it from there. You won't even know I'm there."

"Yeah, okay. Come in at two. I'll let one of my people know you're coming."

"Thanks, Nick."

"No problem."

The phone rang off and Arthur heaved a sigh of relief.

Home beckoned at the appropriate time and he picked up his jacket, ready to go answer its call. A good night in, a beer, maybe some old shows on TV. Or maybe he could go to a movie? Nah, there wasn't anything he wanted to see. He shrugged on the jacket, saying goodnight to someone as they passed him with a smile.

Lou was still in his office. The light was still on.

Arthur considered his options. Lou wasn't his responsibility. Nor would his boss thank him for barging into his office when he was busy with something else. Arthur didn't intrude.

"Hello, Arthur. Thought you finished at five."

"Brian?"

"So this is what a den of vipers looks like," Brian laughed, glancing up at the building, "Eaten any babies today?"

Arthur wanted to glower at him. He tried to, he really did. But there was just something infectious about the way Brian's mouth curled up at the corners. He settled for a little snort and proceeding down the street.

Brian didn't follow him. Arthur was sure of that. It was somewhat of a wrenching disappointment, but then Arthur hadn't even expected to see Brian again after… well, after.

Surely that one night had dissipated whatever hold he had on Brian? It was unthinkable for someone like Brian to keep coming back. Except that Arthur had an inkling of what was so attractive to the man and if playing hard to get was going to get him someone to spend the night with, he wasn't averse to it.

He smiled grimly to himself.

No, he wasn't averse at all. He was surprisingly enthusiastic about the thought. Brian was a fantasy, a dream. And only fools could fight a dream for too long.

Arthur didn't expect to see Brian again that night. But the rock star turned up at his front door a little later in the night, smelling of women's perfume and stale smoke. There was smudged lipstick on his lips and his hair was messy.

He looked thoroughly debauched and he leaned casually against the wall opposite Arthur's door as though Arthur couldn't possibly find anything offensive about his appearance.

Arthur did. He let the man in with a barely concealed snarl of disgust. And then threw a wad of tissues at him.

"You've got 'er lipstick all over your face," Arthur grunted. He settled back into his couch and picked up the remote.

"It's not hers," Brian said easily. Then he sat down in the armchair and settled in too. "Want to talk?"

"I'm watching telly."

Brian stifled a grin. He didn't think Arthur had seen it, so he didn't bother too much. He laid his head back against stuffed fabric and only reacted when Arthur tossed him a beer.

"How can you drink this shite?" he grimaced.

"There's scotch somewhere, if you like."

"No. No, this'll be good, ta."

Camp and depraved, but sitting in a dinghy apartment and watching the news on TV with perfect composure. Arthur didn't watch TV so much as watch Brian watch TV. He didn't make a pretense of it. He didn't see why he should. If Brian had invited himself over, the man would have to put up with whatever happened to him.

"I got a call yesterday," Brian said suddenly, "From Curt."

Ah, Curt. Arthur waited for it.

"Jack's up in the rafters about something in the club," Brian continued, "He wants Curt. Jack called me, I called Curt. He said yes yesterday. Want to come?"

"I don't sing."

"You don't have to. No work, just hang around backstage."

"Why'd I do that, eh?"

"It's just an offer. We're flying down on Friday."

Brian didn't say any more. Arthur didn't say any more. When the news was over, Brian got out of the armchair and got down on his knees.

"Relax, man," he whispered, "I don't bite."

Arthur fervently hoped he wouldn't. He held that head, guided it down because he couldn't do anything else, wriggled on the couch to get his pants down.

Brian was all business, really. No tricks and teases. Until he looked up with one of his mischievous smiled and began to hum 'The Ballad of Maxwell Demon' with his mouth full.

Arthur couldn't help it- he burst out laughing. The very idea was so sacrilegious, so childish. It was like being back in London with his friends, occasionally ending up naked in a bed with one of them, half-joking around and half-in love.

He fully admitted he was more than already half-in love with Brian Slade. Always had been.

He pulled the man off him and tried to catch his breath, to calm himself down before something stupid happened.

But Brian wouldn't let him stop. Got up and undressed and got them both scrunched up any old how on the couch. Turned his back and leaned on the arm while Arthur didn't wait too long for niceties.

It was rough, quick, harsh, but ultimately satisfying.

Arthur was never sure whether or not he had said anything important while he bit on the rock star's neck and ear, but he had a vague memory of promising the earth and the universe, of wanting 'more' and 'deeper' and 'yes' and 'love'.

He rolled off onto the floor and Brian simply lay still on the couch, face hidden in his hands and his ribcage heaving.

And then those grey eyes were looking into his, Brian's face flushed and his mouth red with spit and kisses.

Arthur looked up at the ceiling. "Why'd you do it?" he asked bluntly.

"Have sex? I like sex. You're a good fuck, love."

Arthur chuckled because the laughter was still in his blood and Brian had somehow torn something fundamentally controlled in his tongue that wouldn't mend for a few hours. "Not so bad yourself."

"Then what's the problem?" Brian demanded. He was shrewd enough to know how Arthur's mind worked. And this was more than just a post-sex chat. The very fact that Arthur hadn't just drifted off to sleep meant something in Brian's book. "You're not married or dating, no?"

"I'm not married. You?"

Brian raised an eyebrow. "Not for a while now. How was Mandy?"

"Tired," Arthur supplied. To see whether Brian could be shamed.

Apparently not. Brian looked regretful but not particularly guilty.

Arthur shook his head and turned over on his side, pillowing his head on his folded arms so he could go to sleep. It was cold, it was a hard floor, but sleep seemed much more important for the moment.

Brian watched him interestedly and slipped down the line of pale skin, so exotic from the sun-tanned, fake-tanned skin of Los Angeles darlings. Dark hair on a pale chest and arms and legs, at the groin and under the arms. Again so different. Dark eyes hidden under closed lids with decent dark lashes.

Brian could feel a change coming on. He could taste it, and it tasted of hairspray and garage dust.


	27. 27

Author's Note: Sorry for the long wait, but because it's so close to the end, I wanted to make sure it ended the way I had planned. Just to be clear, this is the second to last chapter.

Author's Note 2: I've gone back and changed the Live Aid thing. It's too early and I want to keep the real timing, even if I'm meddling in things that I shouldn't. I apologize if I've confused anyone with this oversight on my part. The Live Aid thing (or the new angle about the club) is the reason Brian's going back to England.

------------------------------------------------

Arthur heard Brian getting out of bed that Friday morning.

He sat up, rubbing the sleep from his face, blinking to keep the lithe figure in sight.

Brian wouldn't look at him. He must have seen Arthur wake, must know that Arthur was looking to him to see how this morning's flight to England would affect them, ut if he did see, he gave no sign of it. He concentrated on doing up the zip and button on his slacks, padding barefoot into the bathroom to take a piss.

Arthur went to make coffee.

There was a bag by the door, where Brian had dropped it the night before to sink down in the armchair and help himself to the food on the table. Silent beyond a few words of greeting, ostensibly watching TV.

There hadn't been that much on that Arthur remembered. He'd spent his evening watching Brian. Wondering at the lack of composure.

The tension had been so thick he could taste it on Brian's tongue. Thick and bitter and worse because Brian seemed to spend his time deep in thought, poking it with his finger in morbid fascination.

"Coffee?" Brian asked, emerging with damp skin. Newly shaved. A little red-eyed. A grate in his voice for the early hour.

"Yeah." Arthur pointed to the cupboard. "Get a cup."

They stood around in silence while the coffee brewed.

"When's the flight?" Arthur asked.

"About eleven," Brian said distractedly.

"Right."

"You got work this morning?" Brian continued, almost seamlessly.

"Same as always." Arthur fiddled with the teaspoon. "Why?"

"You could come to see me off," Brian grinned, leering a little from his side of the kitchen, "I'll take you out to breakfast. No? You sure?"

"I'm sure." Arthur smiled but the moment broke when he almost poured the coffee over the tabletop. "Damn! Get me a cloth."

Brian got him a cloth, came over to hand it to him, but didn't retreat again. Stood there, with Arthur brushing up against him as he wiped off the table. Looked up from his shorter stance and contemplated the cast of those features. Put a hand on his arm; just to experiment.

Arthur didn't stop wiping off his tabletop, but he did glance sideways.

Truthfully, his counter was quite dry by this point, and more scrubbing was more likely to take the surface off than do any good. But to stop would be tantamount to indulging Brian's latest little games. Arthur made it a point never to do that.

Didn't think it was wise to like him when he was going to leave anyway.

A good fuck, but Brian couldn't be staying around a lot longer, so where was the point in letting things happen naturally? They had to be regulated. They had to be viewed from all angles and analyzed for their general ability to let his psyche emerge from the experience generally unscathed.

No more guns and fake shootings, basically.

"Art? Hey, man, you okay?"

"What?" Arthur blinked and he was still wiping the counter.

Brian put a hand on top of his, prying the cloth out from under his fingers. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"Sure. Yeah. Nothing?"

"Nothing." Arthur fiddled with the teaspoon again.

"You just wipe shit for fun?" Brian needled.

Arthur frowned at him, disliking the word. He said so, going as far as to take a step away from enforced closeness. Swearing was one thing; filth was another. His mother had brought him up right, and Arthur still didn't swear unless he was mad. His dad had never sworn at all, even when… but that was another gun, wasn't it? Best not to think about that. Not like this. Not when he hadn't exactly showered yet and Brian was standing in his kitchen, smelling of his aftershave after spending the night in his bed.

"Did you call a taxi?" he asked, to cover the silence.

Brian's eyes narrowed. "I can call one now."

"I'll call for you. Get th' coffee."

Arthur was halfway out the kitchen door when Brian took his arm, pulled him back a little and kissed him. That easy smile was back, flickering in the high cheekbones. "You going to miss me?"

Arthur relaxed. "You eat too much."

Brian laughed. "I'll stock up again. How's that? When I get back. It'll take two weeks. And then I'll buy you dinner. Okay?"

"I dunno. Someplace fancy, maybe."

"I'm not rich, you know."

Arthur snorted. "Don't even pull that! I'll get Abby on your case so fast your head'll spin. One week, couple of phone calls- I'll have your year's income on paper on my desk- bang! Fancy or nothing."

"Fancy, then."

Arthur nodded, still grinning, taking the conversation in good part. He knew Brian wouldn't be back. There was all this talk of 'later' but there couldn't possibly be a 'later', not with Curt on that plane and Jack Fairy at the other end. The old gang was regrouping and Arthur didn't have a place there. But it was fun to play.

"Fancy."

Arthur called for a cab a half-an hour too early, knowing enough of the New York traffic to overestimate. If worse came to worst, Brian would leave twenty minutes early and that was alright too. It suited him both ways.

"Coffee?" Brian jogged his elbow and handed the cup over. "How's Lou, by the by?"

"Not great. He's drinking again. Not everyday," Arthur explained, "But he's drinking."

"Tell him to get detox."

Arthur shot a contemplative glance at his companion, wondering if Brian could even see the irony. The idea of a drunkard giving anyone else a lecture on the evils of alcohol was profoundly strange.

"I'll tell him," he said.

"Booze made me do the stupidest things. One time I was convinced this guy in Sweden was with the police, and I got really mad. Really pissed! Started shouting and throwing glasses. Half the people couldn't understand what I was saying and they called the cops and everything." Brian rubbed his nose. "It plays hell with your life."

"I've seen the mess." Arthur couldn't help it. "As the kids say it- been there, done that, bought the t-shirt for the tour."

"What, the room?"

"The, er, knife." Arthur touched his own arm.

"Oh, that's show," Brian said. Alarmingly. "I won't really do it. People know that. I just try."

"Yeah, well, I saw blood. That was enough," Arthur dismissed. He put the cup down, his stomach turning at the thought.

They looked at each other, uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. The apartment was so quiet and it was so early. The sun wasn't up yet and the air was stuffy from locked windows and muggy heating. Takeaway cartons littered the table and there were balled up tissues and stained glasses.

Brian was puzzled. Arthur had seemed so relaxed a few days ago and then there had been a sudden return to the wariness that frustrated the singer so much. The cagy restlessness and that childish look that said Arthur had yet another petty objection. Brian was getting more frustrated. He was approaching tired.

"What now?" he snapped, "What did I say?"

"Nothing."

"If you say that one more time, I'll have you," Brian threatened, dropping his head into his hands to hide a groan.

"Nothing." More cold and stony than before. "The cab should be 'ere soon."

The dropped 'aitch'. The sure sign of tension.

"Arthur."

"See," the reporter interrupted, "You're not coming back. We had fun but it's not like we're friends. You don't want that, and I don't want that."

"Who said?"

"Eh?"

"Who said what I wanted?"

Arthur shook his head. "Don't confuse me. It's all just a story, right? Fancy restaurants and stuff? I was joking."

Brian didn't move. Didn't do more than look steadily back at him. "You don't go to fancy restaurants. So what? I'm not asking you to an album launch. It's a fucking meal, Art."

Not an album launch. Not public, then. Arthur felt justified. "Best not to drag it out, huh?"

"Right, right. Of course." Brian nodded a few times. "You know," he said, "Last night you said it was a… what was it? A fucking dream. You said you dreamed of this. Of what? Me? You dreamed of me, Art?"

"No."

"Fine. Just asking."

"It's a stupid question."

"Making a point."

"What point?" Arthur had never felt more like laughing, even though the laugh stuck in his throat. He flung his own hands out, overwhelmed by the sheer egotism he was faced with. "So what, I dreamed a few times. You wander in, you get under my blanket and you suck me off. So fucking what?"

"I can still suck you off."

"You don't get it. This isn't about sucking me off."

"You seem to think it is. I was thinking something different but you want the sex, so fine: it's sex. I'll come back, and I'll suck you off. That do you?"

"Shut up, Brian."

"Don't see why I should."

"I'm asking."

"I'm refusing. A fag can't say 'no' anymore?"

"Fuck off."

"That's it, yeah? You still want the family and the kids and the fucking house with the three bedrooms. You still think men are just for fun, yeah?"

Arthur stared at the wall opposite and wouldn't notice him. Refused to acknowledge any of the mockery that Brian's fertile brain could come up with.

And Brian seemed to have no trouble. He kept up a steady diatribe as the minute ticked away, never once faltering. Feeding off himself and his own anger. Taking his cues from Arthur's silence.

"I was bloody trying. God knows why, you're not exactly what I had in mind," he finished, "Don't get your hopes up. I wasn't that invested."

Arthur picked up the cups, stood up, and proceeded calmly to put them into the sink. He washed them meticulously without saying a word and came back out of the kitchenette, stopping by the counter to lean against it for support. He wouldn't say, but his head was pounding. His legs were so heavy to move. Breathing was too hard and it was a battle to get enough oxygen into his lungs.

"You know what bugs me," he started, pointing a finger at his guest, "People who say that hurting themselves is for show. I don't like that. I know a girl who died in a car accident. I know friends who almost died from a bad hit. I know a girl who was so depressed she cut her own wrists and wrote a poem on her wall in her own blood. But you! You don't even have the guts to be really tragic."

Brian didn't turn around to look at him.

"I saw the gun go off, Brian. I was there. I was at the concert. I saw the man with the gun and I wanted to tell you. Then the gun went off and you went over. I saw the blood. I saw you get shot. Those kids were sitting around outside, the cops were everywhere, and we were crying, praying. We were terrified and you were lying. You ruined everything."

"What did I ruin?" Brian asked, "I'm a singer. I sing songs. I don't control things."

"You don't? You made us. It's like God, Brian, and you made us in your image. Only you killed yourself, so what was supposed to happen to us?"

"My mum would say that was blasphemy."

"You still talk to her? After everything else you did?"

Brian didn't answer that.

"My mum said that too," Arthur continued, pressing his fingers into the sockets of his eyes, hoping to ease the pressure, "What gives you the right to tell me abou' my life, when you don't know the hell you put me through."

"The hell I put you through." Brian got his bag first, slung it over his shoulder and waited by the door. "You don't get it- I died. Maxwell was bigger than me. More. He was driving me mad."

"Maxwell Demon was you, Brian."

"No. No, he weren't. He was different. So loud. I could hear his voice in my head and I'd thing, 'Oh, Maxwell would really like that' or 'Maxwell would think this'. I could feel him sometimes, when I was alone in a room."

Arthur shrugged, not willing to believe this.

"I had him shot and he died. But I died too. I saw the kids, and the guy who broke his leg getting out. I just floated there, over the ceiling. I saw me, Art; you ever done that? Gone out of your body and floated? Jerry thought it was a great act. He kept telling me I was doing great."

"Guilt," Arthur said.

"Yeah. Except Jerry arranged for a doctor and everything." Brian looked up with haunted eyes. "The doctor couldn't find a pulse."

Arthur had nothing to say to that. The sand was tight in his nose and throat but Brian was at the door, looking as though his soul was slipping out from between his fingers. The shadows in his face were deeper, and his eyes were darker, larger. At the moment, Arthur didn't care.

Brian left.


	28. 28

Author's Note: I really must thank all my reviewers and all my audience. It's been a very long journey and I'm aware that most of the people who came on board at the start have been compelled to move on. Nevertheless, all the support was appreciated. I only hope that this story- and particularly this end- was worth the wait. Once again, thank you all so much.

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Arthur was very happy to see Brian go. He missed him, that was true, and the apartment was too empty without him, but that in itself was maddening. The very idea that Arthur had let himself into this, had seen it coming with both eyes open, and then stood and said not a word in his own defense.

So he went to work and he did what he did best- he put things from his mind.

He strode down cold streets and thought of snow from the year before and how cold it was in alleyways when bright limousines appeared behind faded bars. He thought it, and philosophically put it from his mind.

He stopped at the store to buy cards, awkwardly aware that this was the time for memories. He dipped his hand into the stacks and thought of Lipstick Traces. He methodically found what he wanted, paid for it, and put it from his mind.

No, the world did beat in time to Brian. At least, his world. But music wasn't infallible. It was too easily replaced. The same eight notes could always find another tune, another alteration to break the spell. Arthur was counting on that.

He counted ten days and ten nights. The eleventh day was a Sunday and he found some measure of peace in writing out Christmas cards. It was such a tacky thing to do, really, but his mum had brought him up right. He chose something blatantly religious for them, knowing that God was the only comfort they had in their old age, what with their son turning into a pervert. He found something commercial for his brother.

It occurred to him that he'd never heard John's opinion on the matter. John had come home after, when he was ready to leave. John had always known, just as John always had. He'd taken one look at the bag and Arthur's sullen face the night before and said "Christ Almighty" and "Where the 'ell are you gonna go, you stupid kid". Then he'd said "Here's th' name of a club. Stick around there and you'll find this guy I know. He'll help you out" and Arthur had gone to the club and Ray had been all too happy to help him out.

He sent something appropriately funny for the Flaming Creatures. Something they could laugh over, like the reindeer organizing a union strike. Pearl came from a dockhand family; he'd probably crack a rib over it.

The cards had envelopes and he was mostly legible with a pen. Nothing wrong with his writing. Happy, snowy stamps got stuck on, leaving the acrid sting of cheap glue on his tongue. He went out and got gently sauced to make up for it.

By the time the twelfth day came, he had both a hangover and a thoroughly disgusting level of self-awareness. He had the little suspicion that somewhere in a dark, dank, strobe-lit gay club he'd had a personal revelation.

Of course, the revelation had told him to quit his job and go back to England, but there was no sense in that. Arthur quite liked his job in his own unimpressed way. And what was there for him back in England? An apartment with another man so defeated by the world's rejection of him that he was permanently frozen? An old, two bedroom house with parents who would prefer to think their youngest and brightest was dead? There were a few others, some of whom were perfectly normal people now.

But Arthur wasn't normal.

He looked at himself in the mirror in his bedroom one morning before dressing for work and he wasn't normal. He didn't look normal, he didn't sound normal, he didn't feel normal. He felt… rather strange.

No, England wasn't the answer. It wasn't material things, basically, because Arthur knew all about the ridiculously inept ability of material things to provide happiness. A bed was only a bed when he was the only one in it, after all. So it was 'other'. Was it him? Because Arthur was willing to believe it was all his own fault. It would explain a lot of things. Namely why he woke up to the sound of a gun shot, muffled by music and screaming fans, with the disturbing belief that all he needed to do was turn over and Brian would be grunting at him to stop being so restless.

Brian had no patience with his dramas. It was a singularly unique experience.

Arthur did wake up, and he did turn over, but put the thought from his head and instead pretended he was looking for his digital clock winking sickly green in the not-quite-darkness of his bedroom.

He looked down and he was in warm flannel pyjamas that were so ancient the waistband was fraying. Not a patch of bare skin anywhere. Until he looked at the mirror and the sickly green winked his pale, heavy-lidded face in and out of focus. Like the girl in the club.

Arthur wondered inadvertently if Brian had finished what he had gone to do, whether he and Curt were back to the way they had always been and whether Brian had progressed on to the next stage of his musical development. It was only fitting! Arthur wouldn't have expected anything less for an ending to this eerie saga.

One day he'd write a book about it, he told himself, and then he lay down and comfortably went back to sleep.

The next morning- the fourteenth day- he sorted through some of his old notes for that one elusive contact number. Cecil was the only one who Arthur felt could be a little bit helpful. He might not tell him, because Cecil would only think him an imbecile for not heeding the unexpressed warnings, but Cecil was an old man in a nursing home who couldn't walk. Arthur felt pathetically lucky compared to him.Shelley found it for him.

She was always there, Shelley. Arthur was growing more alarmed every day to see her plain face waiting by his desk on the pretext of some message or note or another. He considered asking her but Shelley didn't work that way. Her mild, timid voice were deceptive; she had a mind like a sewer and he guessed she already knew more than was good for her. If anyone did.

Arthur put that resolutely from his mind too.

On the Tuesday that he called, Cecil was very happy to talk to him. "I read the interview," he said in his precise manner, "I thought it quite good. Thank you for the copy. I didn't make the connections until I heard the, er, news."

Arthur waved it off and smiled into the receiver. "I couldn't say it out loud, but I thought you might guess," he demured.

"It took me a while. He was really very good. A whole new voice, if you know what I mean."

"Yeah."

"But then Brian was always talented that way. He could turn his mind to anything. Well, anything that interested him, I suppose. He was no good with figures and practicalities. I remember when he was determined to hold a concert. He was hoping to drum up some publicity or some such thing. Two weeks before the concert I asked him what the details were only to find out he hadn't arranged a single thing. Not a thing! The hall, the musicians- nothing. He hadn't even sent the invitations to the proper reporters. I spent the next two weeks trying to get things settled."

Arthur chuckled. "It sounds like Brian," he said.

"Yes. Yes, it was just like Brian. He got rid of me very shortly after that."

The humour was no longer so funny. Arthur felt some sympathy stir for this old man in the wheelchair, bound by his memories as much as his illness to the weakness in his bones. It never failed to strike him that Cecil's world seemed to end and begin with Brian.

"But that was a long time ago," the quiet voice continued, a little stronger, "He went on to become a star. I wished him luck, and I am happy for him. He seems to have the life he always wanted, you know. Strangely enough he never saw any interest in being simply himself. He had a fascination for the superhuman. I suppose you noticed it?"

"Yeah. I noticed."

"May I give you a piece of advice," Cecil broke in, "I don't know you, Mr. Stewart. I don't know if you will let me say this, but I get so terribly tired these days I like to be straightforward. Excuse an old man his rudeness. I know from the article that you have spent time with Brian. I don't presume to know what your relationship is, but I can understand how magnetic Brian can be. If I'm wrong, tell me so; if not, just listen."

Arthur held his tongue.

"Brian has no concept of people beyond himself. He is vain, selfish and egotistical. He cannot help who he is. Perhaps because people like myself have let him get away with it for all his young life, but he is far too old to change now. I wouldn't look for a change if I were you. You see, Brian is a free agent. He doesn't believe in monogamy, not for people, ideas or interests."

They spoke for a few more minutes and then Arthur wished him a Merry Christmas and left him alone. The man was coughing, obviously tired and panting lightly with every three words he spoke. Arthur turned the conversation over in his head and then calmly put it from his mind. He was decided- he wouldn't think about it again.

The phones were ringing off the hook in the office that frigid Wednesday morning. Everyone was still around, working overtime what with the holiday season in full-bloom.

Shelley was the one who came over, said "I thought you'd want to know" and left a freshly typed article on his desk. It wasn't one of theirs'; it was from England. And it quite plainly glowed with admiration for the revolutionary charity single that was making waves in the country.

Arthur laughed so loud people actually covered the mouthpiece of their phones and glared at him. Carl bellowed at him to shut up or get out of the office and some people really needed to get their fucking work done so could everyone shut the hell up? Arthur shook his head, flipped the older man off behind his back and put his feet up on the desk so he could read the article from top to bottom. It wasn't very long- maybe four or five paragraphs- but it was solid. Good prose, good writing style. And damned good news!

Arthur felt the tiniest twinge of frustration. Brian had asked him to go; he'd have had a first-hand vision into the hype- Boy George getting in straight from a flying dash across in the Red Eye, Status Quo and their drinking games. It would have been something to see Phil Collins hammer out those drums. Arthur was a fan, of a sort. He'd stuck around London long enough to see Quo and Genesis sidle around the scene. He'd dodged a dozen Peter Gabriel up-starts too.

But it would have been something!

He'd expected to see two very familiar names, what with the way Shelley disappeared so fast, but neither Brian nor Curt were mentioned in the lists of artists who played out that little single. Arthur was somewhat disappointed.

Shelley found him at lunch idling the minutes away before he could safely abandon his sandwich as inedible. She generously passed him a second fork and he dug around in her cold, leftover bake for chicken bits. She seemed happiest eating the crust.

"So?" she prompted.

He didn't look up, just nodded. "It was a good article. Nice to know those guys can afford to make a little money for someone else."

"You were disappointed, weren't you?" she pressed.

He changed the subject. But then she poked him in the arm with her fork and said, "I'm not done yet. Let me finish."

"Shelley, I'm not gonna argue," he sighed.

"Who's arguing? I'm just going to say this, and then I'll go away. You can even have my lunch."

"Thanks."

She grinned at him and shyly put her fork down, flustered at the thought of having poked someone so off-handedly. "Sorry about that. I didn't think it would hurt. Did it hurt?"

"The point, Shelley?"

"Hmmm? Oh! Just in case this thing with Brian is a little more than you're telling anyone about, you should probably make sure this guy's on the level," she said, "Go talk to someone who knows him."

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Yes, mum. That all?"

"And you should probably stop trying to be the strong, silent type. It always makes me think of Abby. You know how loud she is and she just keeps saying men are always so dense. I don't think you're dense, but I don't think you think very much. Well, you try not to."

"That was a compliment, righ'?" Arthur teased. He pulled he ponytail for good luck and got up, smiling down at the woman. "Thanks, Shelley. Anything else?"

"Nope."

"Then I'll go, eh?"

"You can go," she said softly.

He patted her paternally on the head and plodded away. Plodding seemed to be about all that the snow was good for these days. Plodding and kicking. Arthur found himself automatically unable to resist kicking at random piles of snow lying scraped up on the pavements. People shot him death-glares but he still kicked at them, grinning a little to himself like some maniac.

Oddly enough, it was four days before Christmas that he got to his front door and opened it to find a blanket, a bare tree, junk food, beer and a rocker who lay under the blanket fast asleep.

Arthur stared stupidly. It was repression, his brain decided. All that insistence on not thinking about it and he had finally gone mad. So here was Brian asleep on his couch, and Arthur's brain was short-circuiting.

"Bri?" he called gently, walking in and sitting down in the other chair. En route he stuck a finger out and prodded the fast food. It felt real, but then that was the art of the delusion, wasn't it? "Brian."

Brian merely mumbled something and shut his mouth, licking his lips for good measure as though in a nervous habit.

Arthur got a good look at him in the blaring overhead light.

The man was thin, dark, and peaceful. Two of three things were new to Arthur. Brian was never peaceful, and Arthur was certain that certain patches of Brian were more brown than black. An arm was out from under the blanket and curled up to provide a pillow, the sleeve white and the cuffs rolled back.

Still the same delicate wrists, Arthur noted.

He reached out and poked it, just in case.

Brian jerked and tumbled off the couch.

Arthur just stared.

"Bloody hell, don't do that!" Brian shouted, "What d'you want me to do, break my bloody neck?"

"You're here."

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm here. Help me up."

Arthur stayed where he was. "You were in England."

Brian resolved himself to moving under his own steam. Really, this was not the reunion he'd been expecting. Knowing Arthur, he'd have expected either outright rejection or silent passivity to continue in the same old, useless way. "I flew back two days ago," he groaned, one slender hand going to his back, "I think I broke something."

Arthur chose to ignore that. Looking back around at the front room of his apartment, he frowned, more to himself that anyone in particular. "How'd you get in?"

Brian was sitting on the floor, bent almost double to reach the 'something broken' in his back, and he still managed to look as though conversing with a slow witted child. "I got a key made for your door," he said.

"What?"

"A key," Brian said again, enunciating perfectly with his fluid voice, "Made for your front door."

Arthur blinked. "Why?"

"I had to get in," Brian explained.

It felt a little bit like too much effort on Brian's part.

The rock star seemed to be reading his thoughts again, because he said, "It didn't cost as much as I expected."

"You're rich," Arthur agreed, "You can take it."

"Yeah, I'm rich." Brian flipped up one limp wrist, squinting at his gold watch, "It's late. How long was I asleep?"

"Dunno. I just got home."

"Great. Want to get me up?"

Arthur stood and held out his hand. With the utmost non-commitance, of course. Just for protection. Brian could take it or leave it, but that was all Arthur was offering. A hand up. That was all. Just a hand. Not a smile, not a welcome, not a possible invitation to think that breaking into his home was alright. Curt had already broken into his home once before and really, were all rock stars quite so rude? Arthur couldn't possibly give more, nor could he forgive so easily and Brian was so utterly high-handed, so egotistically impetuous! What the devil did he mean by breaking into someone's home? How dared he…

Brian grabbed his hand, pulled himself up and didn't seem to notice the slight. He brushed himself off and adjusted the hippie vest hanging off his shoulders. "I bought dinner," he announced, looking proud of himself.

And just like that Arthur deflated.

He didn't mean to. He was angry, he really was. But Brian was standing there with dyed black hair and no make-up, grinning as though it were a very normal day in their lives that he broke into Arthur's home and brought food and alcohol along for the ride.

Perfectly, irreconcilably male.

Men didn't talk. Arthur talked sometimes, he knew he did. He remembered saying things throughout the year that he wasn't proud of, and some things he was downright ashamed of.

Once again, Brian cocked his head and the gentlest smile Arthur had ever seen flickered briefly over his sharp face. "Don't think so much," Brian whispered. And then considerately left him alone.

Arthur considerately didn't answer. If he opened his mouth he would deny everything. He didn't have very much to deny so that could be no use. No, better to eat first and then see what happened. See what Brian wanted.

"You, er, really died?" he called out.

The sound of rustling plastic halted for a second too long. "I didn't. I'm here, aren't I? I wouldn't be standing here if I was alive."

Perfect sense.

"But you thought you died?" Arthur insisted.

Brian came back with two beers. "Art, you don't want to talk about this. Don't be so suspicious, yeah?"

Suspicious? Since when had he ever been suspicious? Arthur couldn't remember ever being suspicious. He remembered being naïve and inclined to falling helplessly into situations, blind chance pointing the way. When had he changed that?

"Look, luv, it was a mistake," Brian said. He handed one bottle over. "I made a mistake. I was messed up. I was tired, I was angry, I was drugged, I was drunk… I was a lot of things."

"And you were dead," Arthur put in.

Brian dropped his head to stare at Arthur's shoes. Very sensible shoes, too. He had a sneaking preference for shoes that weren't so sensible. "I thought I was dead. I wanted to be dead. That's all I'll say about it. You want to eat now or later?"

Arthur shrugged and sat down. He shoved the blanket a-ways down the couch, settling in and watching to see where Brian would fit. The world he had created was small, meant only for himself. How could someone like Brian ever…

Brian curled himself into the armchair and switched on the TV. Someone was laughing and the flickering light lit up his long neck, touched the shadows just under his cheekbones. He even swung a leg erratically up over the padded arm.

Arthur smiled to himself and raised a silent toast to the silent figure in the armchair. It fit perfectly.

"So," he said, "That shooting."

"Arthur, stop it."

"Fine. What about Curt?"

"Curt's in England," Brian returned, all casual grey eyes.

"Waiting for you?"

"He's got his own life. Probably snorting it away; I don't know. Jack's looking after him, like Jack always does."

Arthur nodded. "And the pin?" he asked.

Brian hesitated and for the first time looked as though he didn't have a ready answer. "I gave it back to Jack. He asked for it."

"I see."

"Curt wasn't supposed to give it to you," Brian muttered, gulping at the warming liquid in his hand.

Curt wasn't supposed to have done a lot of things, Arthur calculated silently. But he still did them. They all did. Nothing they could do about it.

"By the way," Brian added, "I've got a set of dates to play at the club in a week. I'd like you to come with me. You got some vacation time?"

He really did have all the time in the world, even if he did have to quit his job and move to England. If only to finally see Brian Slade play live.


	29. 29

Author's Note: I'm sorry. I know I'm messing about with this for too long. But I just realized that the last chapter (before the epilogue) didn't really say what I wanted it to say. I thought the ending was too abrupt and so I decided to put in this last chapter. The previous chapter and the epilogue are the same as before.

-------------------------------------------------------------

"We're going to have to talk about it some time," Brian warned.

Arthur glared at him from over the newspaper but said nothing.

"Art, you've got to…"

"First rule," Arthur interrupted, "I hate that name. Don't call me 'Art', right? Second, no. We're not talking about it."

Brian sighed and considered banging his head on the window. Whatever utopia of originality he had thought this relationship was going to be, it clearly wasn't. Arthur was more likely to be idiotic than romantic. Not, in itself a bad thing, but when one has a highly aesthetic appreciation of one's future, one tended to want a little romance now and again. Or at least one wanted less idiocy.

"We're in the car," he said, trying to control his temper, "The car is bloody well moving. So, we're going to talk about it."

"Nope," Arthur said again. And he turned the page.

Brian very kindly stole the paper, ripping it in his haste.

Arthur stared at the little square he had left in his hand and then turned to his lover with the blackest glare he had yet afforded him. "What was tha' for?" he snapped, "I was reading that."

"Talk," Brian threatened, "Or get out of my car."

"Your car? Fine! Open the fucking door and I'll get out!" Arthur had one hand on the car door and the car wasn't stopping any time soon, but it was still in the City hub and it was slow enough to avoid broken bones from jumping.

"Stop driveling," Brian said contemptuously.

He sat back and folded his arms, turning up his nose and looking out of the other window.

They stayed quiet for the longest time, reluctant to break the stifling tension. It had been building since the night before, but Arthur hadn't wanted to talk about it. Brian, naturally, had instantly insisted that they talk because he always got suspicious when Arthur got quiet.

"I don't like not knowing," he said. Often enough, really, and Arthur usually thought it was a reasonable enough request, except on some occasions…

"I don't want to fly," Arthur said abruptly, "There! I admitted it. Was that all?"

"That's all," Brian murmured, still staring out of the window.

Arthur sank back and scrubbed at his face with his hands. "You've got to stop throwing your damned wealth in my face," he sighed, "It makes me mad."

"It is my fucking car," Brian snapped.

Arthur clicked his tongue in annoyed and gave up. By now he knew- two weeks into this strange compromise of lives- that Brian didn't do apologies. Not when it mattered. He could say sorry for the little things with the best of them, like accidentally biting too hard or forgetting to pick up milk.

Brian never had remembered to pick up milk, Arthur reminded himself. For two days he'd wandered into Arthur's flat and said, "Shit! I forgot the milk!" Arthur had got it himself and felt bad for having to nag at the older man to get it in the first place.

"Right," he allowed, "It's your car. You bought the car. You bought the plane tickets. We'll stay at the hotel at your fucking expense. You want me to thank you?"

"You're still pissed," Brian broke in, "Look, I did you a favour. What were you going to do? Stay there indefinitely?"

"Why not?" Arthur yelled, finally exploding enough to slam his hand on his knee and twist around, "Why the hell not? I liked my job. You had no right to do that!"

"You said you wanted…"

"I were joking…"

"… to write and you were the one…"

"… You had no business talking to…"

"… you said you were thinking of…"

"… I couldn't look Lou in th' face!…"

"… I only mentioned it once…"

"… What d' yer think I am?..."

"… Your boss was the one who got it wrong. I just mentioned it," Brian spat. He banged his hand against the door. "It wasn't my fault!"

"It's never your damned fault. Nothing! You can't take responsibility for anything," Arthur said, "Not even for shooting yourself!"

Brian laughed, though it wasn't funny. "Oh, we're back to that," he remarked to no one, "We always come back to that. Go on, then. You're going to think it so you might as well say, yeah? How was it my fault?"

"You got yourself shot! I think it was your bloody fault! You knew, didn't you?"

"Oh, please! I sucked a guitar off but that wasn't an act, was it? I kissed Curt for the tabloids but that couldn't possibly be an act. Everything was a fucking act!"

"Yeah, but we didn't get it until you shot yourself!"

They turned away again and stared out of their own windows. Arthur thought he recognized someone on the streets but the traffic for once was moving too fast and the person was walking in the opposite direction.

They finally reached the airport too late to do anything more than get through the formalities and get on the plane. By which time Arthur was tense enough to strangle Brian if he even opened his pretty little mouth.

There was no danger of that. That pretty little mouth was set in a thin, ugly line, and Brian kept himself to himself. Uncharacteristically, he began to bite his nails.

Arthur did a double take but grey eyes blazed at him and he shrugged and turned away. He was thankful Brian took the window seat without a word. He wouldn't have put it past Brian to maliciously make him sit at the window, just because he knew he hated flying.

The journey itself was uneventful. The stewardess was all kindness and Brian was silent as the grave.

Arthur kept his sanity by shredding tissues.

Brian looked over once, raised his eyebrow at the lapful of shreds and empty hands and wordlessly shook his head.

When the plane touched down, Arthur was once again ready to kiss the ground. If he had been in a better mood he would have kissed Brian but he wasn't. Now that the flight was over, his anger was back. He stalked off fuming and kept a wide berth from the rock star.

It turned out to be a blessing.

Brian was recognized- as he always was- and for some reason a small knot of reporters had managed to hear he was flying in. The cameras were going off before he was ready.

Brian hated cameras.

He put up his hand politely to decline, smiled charmingly and damned them all to hell in his head.

"Mr. Slade, what is the nature of your business in England?"

"Can we expect a new record, Mr. Slade?"

"Mr. Slade, what do you say to the new allegations by Mark Linway that you owe him thousands in unpaid fees?"

"Mr. Slade, we heard you had a new person in your life. Would you like to comment, Mr. Slade?"

Brian shook his head, smiled just as charmingly and thankfully handed his bag over to his chauffeur. He estimated someone had tipped them off. He had a very good idea of whom, but he was more concerned with getting out of the airport than stamping his foot and screaming.

In all honestly, he didn't mind publicity. But publicity when he wasn't doing anything to warrant publicity was a pain in the arse. And speaking of pains in the arse…

Arthur was camped comfortably by the limousine, his long face wreathed in the most evil grin Brian had ever seen. The reporter was leaning happily against the boot, with his battered bags around his feet and his hands nonchalantly in his pocket.

Brian bared his teeth but it wasn't a smile this time. He was seriously considering going for the jugular.

"Mr. Slade, what do you think of the Live Aid concerts? Will you be participating, Mr. Slade?"

Arthur graciously moved out of the way when the driver hurriedly tossed all bags in and went around to the far door to escape being crushed by his lover's over-enthusiastic welcoming committee. He slid in before anyone could notice him and sprawled comfortably on the leather interior.

He was beginning to quite like all the luxury. God help him when Brian decided to dump him, he mused, breathing in the polished smell and warm air.

"Drive, drive," Brian yelped urgently, managing to get in without losing any limbs and more than a little shaken by the avalanche of questions. "Who the hell is Mark Linway? Why do I have to pay him thousands?"

Arthur felt his jaw would break if he grinned any wider.

"I suppose you think this is funny," Brian said coldly.

Arthur shook his head and didn't trust himself to speak without laughing.

"Where were you when I required a little help back there?"

"And spark off a whole new set of questions? Ta, luv, I'll pass," Arthur mocked.

Brian didn't comment and they proceeded to the hotel with very little more than general remarks on the weather. They couldn't afford to shout in this limo; the driver was new.

They got out, they checked in, they followed their bags up to their rooms.

Their rooms. In plural. Separate rooms.

Arthur had shrugged when Brian mentioned it so casually a few days before, content to ascribe it to uncertainties. After all, if they shared a room, it would advertise their arrangements needlessly to the whole world. With everything still on probation, Arthur had overlooked the caution.

At the moment, it made him a little bitter.

He shut the curtains, he had a shower and then he went to bed.

He woke up with Brian.

Not in his bed, though, just sitting down in a chair next to his bed with the lamp on and reading some kind of lurid paperback novel. With a chalk outline of someone on the front, no less.

The sight was surreal enough to make him blink. "Hey," he grunted, sitting up, "Wha's wrong?"

Brian put down the book and shrugged. Then he examined his nails and then he sighed. "I suppose I should be sorry," he said reluctantly, "About the car."

Arthur pushed his hair back and scratched his scalp. "Look, it's not a good time to talk about this," he began.

Brian snorted and got out of the chair, bouncing onto the bed on hands and knees. "Really. And when is it a good time? I'm a little sick and tired of waiting on you, Art. I'll apologize, but if you start on about not talking when I say 'talk', I'm going to bite. An' this time, it won't be so you can get off."

Arthur blinked again. But Brian seemed serious. "You always pick the shite times to talk," he protested, "Not when I'm up to 'ere in tension. Use your head a little. And don't call me that."

"Well, sometimes later doesn't cut it either. I'll call you what I damned well like."

"Tha's just perfect," Arthur retaliated, "Do whatever the hell you like. Say jump and everyone will jump as high as they possibly can and hope it's high enough. Bugger off, Brian."

"Rather stay here and do that." Brian was smiling, now, as though the whole thing was just a joke.

Arthur got out of bed and ignored his audience, searching through his bags for clean clothes. He was in shorts, but honestly, he couldn't walk the streets in shorts.

"Arthur…" Brian said, "Art, I'm sorry."

"Little late, Brian."

"Better late than never, luv. I don't do apologies very well. You'll have to take it when you get it."

Arthur ignored that too and went to the bathroom to change. He deliberately picked black, more to irritate Brian than any need to explore the condition of his mood.

Brian was sitting cross-legged on the bed when he emerged, one hand threaded through his dye-darkened hair and the other flopped casually in his lap. He was hunched comfortably forward and looked as though he expected to spend a while in that position.

"You locked the door," Brian observed, "Why's that?"

"Didn't want you coming in after me," Arthur replied.

"D' you think I would?"

Arthur stopped then, at the genuinely hurt voice, and glanced over at the figure on the bed. "I don't know. If you were in one of your mood, yeah, I think you would."

"One of my moods."

"You've got a strange temper, Brian."

"I do, don't I? Tell me, do I annoy you?"

Arthur gave him a speaking look.

Brian nodded at that answer and continued, "Do I frighten you?"

Arthur laughed, then, and shook his head. "No. Just annoy."

Brian smiled too. And then sobered up. "I'm not going to apologize again," he warned.

"You should. You lost me my job."

"I only said you were thinking of leaving because you wanted to write," Brian groaned, his fingers tightening in his hair, "I didn't think Lou would take it like that."

"He told me to resign," Arthur growled, "Kept sayin' I should go off and write if I wanted. I don' care if you didn't mean it, I didn't know where to look!"

"Okay, I am sorry about that."

"And the car. You keep throwing all this in my face, like I owe you something. Your car; your this, your that. I'm sick of it! You bring it up once more and I'll leave."

Brian nodded, looking non-too-pleased about the lecture.

Arthur knew when enough was enough, and he sighed and let it go, just as reluctantly as Brian; Brian didn't like his nagging. When had he started to nag? Sometimes he even sounded like his mother. He sat down in the chair beside the desk and said, "When do you have to get there?"

Brian looked at his watch. And cursed. "I'd better start changing," he said, getting up, "The boys will be waiting."

Arthur stood up awkwardly. "Do I go with you or shall I wait?" he asked, "I don't know. How does this work?"

Brian seemed surprised. "I don't know, Art. Whatever you want."

"I'll stay here, then. Get some more sleep." He yawned for good measure, even if it was a fake one, and pulled at the buttons on his shirt.

Brian watched him with the smallest smile curving his mouth, his grey eyes gleaming.

Arthur slid into bed and turned on his side, kicking off his socks while he was at it.

The mattress dipped and cloth rustled. A moment later a long, slender arm wrapped around his chest. "How we didn't end up fucking earlier I don't know," Brian whispered.

Arthur laughed and turned, pinning the smaller man beneath him. "I thought you had to leave," he said, and kissed him.

"They can wait," Brian said, licking at his lips, "You never take long." He quirked an eyebrow to take the sting out of the words.

Arthur put a hand over his mouth. "Don't make me shoot you," he advised calmly, and began to kiss his neck.


	30. Epilogue

Jack Fairy sat beside him for the longest time. And when the show finished he continued to stay where he was. He didn't move.

Arthur smiled at Brian's sweat-slick face, still so energized and fascinating. No longer so graceful, no longer so pretty. No, not pretty any more, just beautiful. Performing in a suit with an open-necked shirt, mic in hand and blackened hair cut neat, he looked an almost unusual breed in this hothouse of a club.

Until one noted that the suit was forest green and the blackened hair was set just so. Even that there was still a line of mascara to darken those grey eyes and the sweat had loosened the foundation and rouge that coloured the pale skin.

Brian was busy, bowing with the Flaming Creatures and getting off stage to swarms of ecstatic fans. From the shallow apology on his face, Arthur figured it would be a while before the man would reluctantly try to tear himself away.

"He still has it," Jack Fairy said, "A marvellous man."

Arthur started. He turned his head.

Jack Fairy just grinned and smoked his cigarette. "I can talk," he said sweetly, "Or did you think I was dumb between songs?"

"N-no, I just thought…"

"No point doing your talking when no one's ready to listen, Arthur. Not all of us clamour until we're heard." Those disturbing eyes rested on Brian's face. And then Jack Fairy's famous smile glittered out. "Some of us choose to wait until the time is right."

"Okay."

Jack Fairy stubbed out the cigarette and left.


End file.
